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NILE    NOTES. 


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NILE    NOTES 


OF  A  HOWADJI. 


BY 

GEORGE   WILLIAM   CURTIS. 


NEW    YORK: 

HAEPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN     S  Q  L' A  I>.  E. 


\  O  G3 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856,  by 

GEORGE    WILLIAM    CURTIS, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for 
the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


1>  T 
5  O 

C  3 


PREFACE, 

WHEN  the  Persian  Poet  Hafiz  was  asked  by  the  Philoso- 
>Ler  Zenda  what  he  was  good  for,  he  replied: 
"  Of  what  use  is  i  ^c»v.e\  9'" 

"  A  flower  is  good  to  smell,"  said  the  philosopher. 
"  And  I  a,m  good  to  emell  it,"  said  the  poet. 


A  foutra  for  the  world  and  worldlings  base, 
I  sing  of  Africa  and  golden  joys." 

King  Henry  IV.,  Part  ii. 

" or  I  described 

Great  Egypt's  flaring  sky,  or  Spain's  cork  groves." 

Robert  Browning's  "  Paracelsus. " 

"  If  it  be  asked  why  it  is  called  the  Nile,  the  answer  is,  because  it  has 
beautiful  and  good  water." 

Werne's  "  White  Nile." 

"  What,  then,  is  a  Howadji  ?"  said  the  Emperor  of  Ethiopia,  draining  a 
beaker  of  crocodile  tears. 

"  Howadji,"  replied  the  astute  Arabian,  "  is  our  name  for  merchants ; 
and  as  only  merchants  travel,  we  so  call  travellers." 

"  Allah-  hu  Akbar,"  said  the  Emperor  of  Ethiopia.    "  God  is  great." 
Linkum  Fidelius's  "  Calm  Crocodile,  or  the  Sphinx  unriddled." 

" He  saw  all  the  rarities  at  Cairo,  as  also  the  Pyramids,  and  sailing 

up  the  Nile,  viewed  the  famous  towns  on  each  side  of  that  river." 

Story  of  Ali  Cogia,  in  the  Arabian  Nights. 

"  Canopus  is  afar  off,  Memnon  resoundeth  not  to  the  sun,  and  Nilus 
heareth  strange  voices." 

Sir  Thomas  Browne. 

" There  can  one  chat  with  mummies  in  a  pyramid,  and  breakfast 

on  basilisks'  eggs.  Thither,  then,  Homunculus  Mandrake,  son  of  the 
great  Paracelsus  ;  languish  no  more  in  the  ignorance  of  those  clim«s,  but 
abroad  with  alembic  and  crucible,  and  weigh  anchor  for  Egypt." 

Death's  Jest  Book,  or  the  Fool's  Tragedy. 


CONTENTS, 


TAIil 

I. — GOING  TO  BOULAK,   ....  .1 

II. — THE  DRAG-6-MEN,         ...  .10 

III. — HADJI  HAMED, 22 

IV.— THE  IBIS  SINGS,   ....  .29 

V.— THE  CREW, 37 

VI.— THE  IBIS  FLIES, 47 

VII. — THE  LANDSCAPE 54 

VIII.— TRACKING, 61 

IX.— FLYING, 67 

X. — VERDE  GIOTANE  AND  FELLOW-MARINERS,     .        71 

XI. — VERDE  nu  GIOVANE, 77 

XII. — ASYOOT, 85 

XIII.— THE  SUN, 69 

XIV. — THEBES  TRIUMPHANT,  .        .        .         .       '.103 

XV. — THE  CROCODILE, 105 

XVI. — GETTING  ASHORE, 114 

XVII.— FAIR  FRAILTY, 117 

XVIII. — FAIR  FRAILTY — CONTINUED,         .         .         .      124 

XIX. — KUSHUK  ARNEM, 130 

XX. — TERPSICHORE, 14C 

XXI. — SAKIAS, 146 

XXII. — UNDER  THE  PALMS,  1  152 

XXIIL— ALMS!  0  SHOPKEEPER!   .        .  .165 


X  CONTEN  TS. 

•      PAG* 
XXIV.— SYENE, 168 

XXV.— TREATY  OF  SYENE 175 

XXVI.— THE  CATARACT, 184 

XXVII.— NUBIAN  WELCOME 192 

XXVIII.— PHILJS, 197 

XXIX. — A  CROW  THAT   FLIES    IN    HEAVEN'S    SWEETEST 

Am, 206 

XXX. — SOUTHWARD, 215 

XXXI.— ULTIMA  THULE, 224 

XXXII.— NORTHWARD, 234 

XXXIII.— BY  THE  GRACE  OF  GOD,   .        .        ...        .250 

XXXIV.— FLAMINGOES 260 

XXXV.— CLEOPATRA .265 

XXXVI.— MEMNON 283 

XXXVII.— DEAD  KINGS, 293 

XXXVIII.— BURIED, 300 

XXXIX.— DEAD  QUEENS, 308 

XL.— ET  CETERA, 312 

XLl. — THE  MEMNONIUM,    ....  .  316 

XLII. — MEDEENET  HABOO, 321 

XLIII.— KARNAK, 329 

XLIV.— PRUNING .      339 

XLV.— PER  CONTRA, .346 

XLVL— MEMPHIS, 352 

XI- VII.— SUNSET,  .  .......  361 


NILE    NOTE'3. 


I. 

GOING    TO    BOULAK, 

IN  a  gold  and  purple  December  sunset,  the  Pacha 
and  I  walked  down  to  the  boat  at  Boulak,  the  port 
of  Cairo.  The  Pacha  was  my  friend,  and  it  does 
not  concern  you,  gracious  reader,  to  know  if  he 
were  Sicilian,  or  Syrian ;  whether  he  wore  coat  or 
kaftan,  had  a  hareem,  or  was  a  baleful  bachelor 
The  air  was  warm,  like  a  May  evening  in  Italy 
Behind  us,  the  slim  minarets  of  Cairo  spired  shin- 
ingly  in  the  brilliance,  like  the  towers  of  a  fairy  city, 
under  the  sunset  sea. 

These  minarets  make  the  Eastern  cities  so  beauti- 
ful. The  heavy  mound-like  domes  and  belfries  of 
western  Europe  are  of  the  earth,  earthy.  But  the 
mingled  mass  of  building,  which  a  city  is,  soars 
lightly  to  the  sky,  in  the  lofty  minarets  on  whose 
gold  crescent  crown  the  sun  lingers  and  lingers, 
making  them  the  earliest  stars  of  evening. 

To  our  new  eyes  every  thing  was  picture.    Vainly 

the  broad  road  was  crowded  with  Muslin'   artisans 
1 


2  NILE    NOTES 

home-returning  from  their  work.  To  the  mere 
Muslim  observer,  they  were  carpenters,  masons 
laborers,  and  tradesmen  of  all  kinds.  We  passed 
many  a  meditating  Cairene,  to  whom  there  was  no- 
thing but  the  monotony  of  an  old  story  in  that  even- 
ing and  on  that  road.  But  we  saw  all  the  pageantry 
of  oriental  romance  quietly  donkeying  into  Cairo. 
Camels,  too,  swaying  and  waving  like  huge  phantoms 
of  the  twilight,  horses  with  strange  gay  trappings 
curbed  by  tawny,  turbaned  equestrians,  the  peaked 
toe  of  the  red  slipper  resting  in  the  shovel  stirrup. 
It  was  a  fair  festal  evening.  The  whole  world  was 
masquerading,  and  so  well  that  it  seemed  reality. 

I  saw  Fadladeen  with  a  gorgeous  turban  and  a 
gay  sash.  His  chibouque,  wound  with  colored  silk 
and  gold  threads,  was  borne  behind  him  by  a  black 
slave.  Fat  and  funny  was  Fadladeen  as  of  old ;  and 
thoffgh  Fermorz  was  not  by,  it  was  clear  to  see  in 
the  languid  droop  of  his  eye,  that  choice  Arabian 
verses  were  sung  by  the  twilight  in  his  mind. 

Yet  was  Venus  still  the  evening  star  ;  for  behind 
him,  closely  veiled,  came  Lalla  Rookh.  She  was 
wrapped  in  a  vast  black  silken  bag,  that  bulged  like 
a  balloon  over  her  donkey.  But  a  star-suffused 
evening  cloud  wTas  that  bulky  blackness,  as  her  twin 
eyes  shone  forth  liquidly  lustrous. 

Abon  Hassan  sat  at  the  city  gate,  and  I  saw  Har- 


GOING    TO    BOULAK.  3 

oun  Alrashid  quietly  coming  up  in  that  disguise  of  a 
Moussoul  merchant.  I.  could  not  but  wink  at  Abon, 
for  I  knew  him  so  long  ago  in  the  Arabian  Nights. 
But  he  rather  stared  than  saluted,  as  friends  may,  in 
a  masquerade.  There  was  Sinbad  the  porter,  too, 
hurrying  to  Sinbad  the  Sailor.  I  turned  and 
watched  his  form  fade  in  the  twilight,  yet  I 
doubt  if  he  reached  Bagdad  in  time  for  the  eighth 
history. 

Scarce  had  he  passed,  when  a  long  string  of 
donkeys  ambled  by,  bearing,  each,  one  of  the  inflated 
balloons.  It  was  a  hareem  taking  the  evening  air. 
A  huge  eunuch  was  the  captain,  and  rode  before. 
They  are  bloated,  dead-eyed  creatures,  the  eunuchs 
— but  there  be  no  eyes  of  greater  importance  to 
marital  minds.  The  ladies  came  gaily  after,  in 
single  file,  chatting  together,  and  although  Araby's 
daughters  are  still  born  to  blush  unseen,  they  looked 
earnestly  upon  the  staring  strangers.  Did  those 
strangers  long  to  behold  that  hidden  beauty? 
Could  they  help  it  if  all  the  softness  and  sweetness 
of  hidden  faces  radiated  from  melting  eyes  ? 

Then  came  Sakkas — men  with  hog  skins  slung 
over  their  backs,  full  of  water.  I  remembered  the 
land  and  the  time  of  putting  wine  into  old  bottles, 
and  was  shoved  back  beyond  glass.  Pedlers — 
swarthy  fatalists  in  lovely  lengths  of  robe  and  tur- 


4  NILE    NOTES. 

ban,  cried  their  wares.  To  our  Frank  ears,  it  was 
mere  Babel  jargon.  Yet  had  erudite  Mr.  Lane 
accompanied  us,  Mr.  Lane,  the  eastern  Englishman, 
who  has  given  us  so  many  golden  glimpses  into  the 
silence  and  mystery  of  oriental  life, — like  a  good 
genius  revealing  to  ardent  lovers  the  very  hallowed 
heart  of  the  hareem, — we  should  hare  understood 
those  cries. 

We  should  have  heard  "Sycamore  figs — O 
Grapes" — meaning  that  said  figs  were  offered,  and  the 
sweetness  of  sense  and  sound  that  "  grape  '  hath  was 
only  bait  for  the  attention  ;  or  "  Odors  of  Paradise, 
O  flowers  of  the  henna,"  causing  Muslim  maidens 
to  tingle  to  their  very  nails'  ends ;  or,  indeed,  these 
pedler  poets,  vending  water-melons,  sang,  "Con- 
soler of  the  embarrassed,  O  Pips."  Were  they  not 
poets,  these  pedlers,  and  full  of  all  oriental  extrava- 
gance ?  For  the  sweet  association  of  poetic  names 
shed  silvery  sheen  over  the  actual  article  offered.  The 
unwary  philosopher  might  fancy  that  he  was  buy- 
ing comfort  in  a  green  water-melon,  and  the  pietist 
dream  of  mementoes  of  heaven,  in  the  mere  earthly 
vanity  of  henna. 

But  the  philanthropic  merchant  of  sour  limes 
cries,  "  God  make  them  light — limes" — meaning  not 
the  fruit  nor  the  stomach  of  the  purchaser,  but  his 
purse.  And  what  would  the  prisoners  of  the  pass- 


GOING    TO    BOULAK.  3 

ing  black  balloons  say  to  the  ambiguousness  of 
"  The  work  of  the  bull,  O  maidens  !"  innocently 
indicating  a  kind  of  cotton  cloth  made  by  bull- 
moved  machinery  ?  Will  they  never  have  done 
with  hieroglyphics  and  sphinxes,  these  Egyptians? 
Here  a  man,  rose-embowered,  chants,  "The  rose  is 
a  thorn,  from  the  sweat  of  the  prophet  it  bloomed" 
— meaning  simply,  "Fresh  roses." 

These  are  masquerade  manners,  but  they  are 
pleasant.  The  maiden  buys  not  henna  only,  but  a 
thought  of  heaven.  The  poet  not  water-melons 
only,  but  a  dream  of  consolation,  which  truly  he 
will  need.  When  shall  we  hear  in  Broadway, 
"  Spring  blush  of  the  hillsides,  0  strawberries,"  or 
"Breast  buds  of  Venus,  O  milk."  Never,  never, 
until  milkmen  are  turbaned  and  berrywomen  bal- 
looned. 

A  pair  of  Persians  wound  among  these  pedlers, 
clad  in  their  strange  costume.  They  wore  high 
shaggy  hats  and  undressed  skins,  and  in  their  girdles 
shone  silver-mounted  pistols  and  daggers.  They 
had  come  into  the  West,  and  were  loitering  along, 
amazed  at  what  was  extremest  East  to  us.  They 
had  been  famous  in  Gotham,  no  Muscat  envoy  more 
admired.  But  nobody  stared  at  them  here  except 
us.  We  were  the  odd  and  observed.  We  had 
stray ecTTn to  The  universal  revel,  and  had  forgotten 


6  NILE    NOTES. 

to  don  turbans  at  the  gate.     0  Pyramids  !  thought 
I,  to  be  where  Persians  are  commonplace. 

In  this  brilliant  bewilderment  we  played  only  the 
part  of  Howadji,  which  is  the  universal  name  foi 
traveller — the  "  Forestiero"  of  Italy.  It  signifies 
merchant  or  shopkeeper ;  and  truly  the  Egyptians 
must  agree  with  the  bilious  Frenchman  that  the 
English  are  a  nation  of  shopkeepers,  seeing  them 
swarm  forever  through  his  land.  For  those  who 
dwell  at  Karnak  and  in  the  shadow  of  Memnon, 
who  build  their  mud  huts  upon  the  Edfoo  Temple, 
and  break  up  Colossi  for  lime,  can  not  imagine  any 
travel  but  that  for  direct  golden  gain.  Belzoni  was 
held  in  the  wiser  native  mind  to  be  a  mere  Douster- 
swivel  of  a  treasure-hunter.  Did  not  Hamed  Aga 
come  rushing  two  days'  journey  with  two  hundred 
men,  and  demand  of  him  that  large  golden  cock  full 
of  diamonds  and  pearls  ?  Think  how  easily  the 
Arabian  Nights  must  have  come  to  such  men ! 
Sublime  stupidity  !  O  Egyptians. 

And  so  advancing,  ttye  massively  foliaged  acacias 
bowered  us  in  golden  gloom.  They  fringed  and 
arched  the  long  road.  Between  their  trunks,  like 
noble  columns  of  the  foreground,  we  saw  the  pyra- 
mids rosier  in  the  western  rosiness.  Their  forms 
were  sculptured  sharply  in  the  sunset.  We  knew 
that  they  were  on  the  edge  of  the  desert ;  that  their 


GOINOTOBODLAK.  7 

awful  shadows  darkened  the  sphinx.  For  so  fair  and 
festal  is  still  the  evening  picture  in  that  delicious 
climate,  in  that  poetic  land.  We  breathed  the 
golden  air,  and  it  bathed  our  eyes  with  new  vision. 
Peach-Blossom,  who  came  with  us  from  Malta, 
solemnly  intent  "  to  catch  the  spirit  of  the  East,'' 
could  not  have  resisted  the  infection  of  that  en- 
chanted evening. 

I  know  you  will  ask  me  if  an  Eastern  book  can 
not  be  written  without  a  dash  of  the  Arabian  Nights, 
if  we  can  not  get  on  without  Haroun  Alrashid.  No, 
impatient  reader,  the  East  hath,  throughout,  that  fine 
flavor.  The  history  of  Eastern  life  is  embroidered 
to  our  youngest  eyes  in  that  airy  arabesque.  What, 
to  even  many  of  us  very  wise  ones,  is  the  history  of 
Bagdad,  more  than  the  story  of  our  revered  caliph  ? 
Then  the  romance  of  travel  is  real.  It  is  the  man 
going  to  take  possession  of  the  boy's  heritage,  those 
dear  dreams  of  stolen  school-hours  over  wild  ro- 
mance ;  and  in  vain  would  he  separate  his  poetry 
from  his  prose.  Given  a  turban,  a  camel,  or  a  palm 
tree,  and  Zobeide,  the  Princess  Badoura  and  the 
youngest  brother  of  the  Barber  step  forward  into 
the  prose  of  experience. 

For  as  we  leave  the  main  road  and  turn  finally 
from  the  towers,  whose  gold  is  graying  now,  behold 
the  parting  picture  and  confess  the  East. 


8  NILE    NOTES. 

The  moon  has  gathered  the  golden  light  in  hei 
shallow  cup,  and  pours  it  paler  over  a  bivouac  of 
camels,  by  a  sheik's  white-domed  tomb.  They 
growl  and  blubber  as  they  kneel  with  their  packs 
of  dates,  and  almonds,  and  grain,  oriental  freight 
mostly,  while  others  are  already  down,  still  as 
sphinxes.  The  rest  sway  their  curved  necks  silently, 
and  glance  contemptuously  at  the  world. 

The  drivers,  in  dark  turbans  and  long  white  robes, 
coax  and  command.  The  dome  of  the  sheik's 
crumbling  tomb  is  whiter  in  the  moonlight.  The 
brilliant  bustle  recedes  behind  those  trees.  A  few 
Cairenes  pass  by  unnoticing,  but  we  are  in  desert 
depths.  For  us  all  the  caravans  of  all  Arabian  ro- 
mance are  there  encamping. 

The  Howadji  reached  at  length  the  Nile,  gleam- 
ing calm  in  the  moonlight.  A  fleet  of  river  boats 
lay  moored  to  the  steep  stony  bank.  The  Nile  and 
the  Pyramids  had  bewitched  the  night ;  for  it  was 
full  of  marvellous  pictures  and  told  tales  too  fair. 
Yet  do  not  listen  too  closely  upon  the  shore,  lest 
we  hear  the  plash  and  plunge  of  a  doomed  wife  or 
slave.  These  things  have  not  passed  away.  This 
luxuriant  beauty,  this  poetry  of  new  impressions, 
have  their  balance.  This  tropical  sun  suckles  serpents 
with  the  same  light  that  adorns  the  gorgeous  flow 
ers.  In  the  lush  jungle,  splendid  tigers  lurk — ah 


GOING    TO    BOULAK.  9 

in  our  poetic  Orient  beauty  is  more  beautiful,  but 
deformity  more  deformed.  The  excellent  EfFendi  or 
paternal  Pacha  has  twenty  or  two  hundred  wives, 
and  is,  of  necessity,  unfaithful.  But  if  the  ballooned 
Georgian  or  Circassian  slips  up,  it  is  into  the  re- 
morseless river. 

Yet  with  what  solemn  shadows  do  these  musings 
endow  the  Egyptian  moonlight.  They  move  invisi- 
ble over  the  face  of  the  waters,  and  evoke  another 
creation.  Columbus  sailed  out  of  the  Mediterranean 
to  a  new  world.  We  have  sailed  into  it,  to  a  new 
one.  The  South  seduces  now,  as  the  West  of  old. 
When  we  reach  one  end  of  the  world,  the  other  has 
receded  into  romantic  dimness,  and  beckons  us 
backward  to  explore,.  The  Howadji  seek  Cathay 
In  the  morning,  with  wide-winged  sails,  we  shall 
fly  beyond  our  history.  Listen  !  How  like  a  ped- 
ler-poet  of  Cairo  chanting  his  wares,  moans  Time 
through  the  Eternity — "  Cobwebs  and  fable,  0 
history!" 


II. 

THE  DRAG'-O-MEN. 

As  we  stepped  on  board,  we  should  have  said,  "  In 
the  name  of  God,  the  compassionate,  the  merciful." 
For  so  say  all  pious  Muslim,  undertaking  an  arduous 
task ;  and  so  let  all  pious  Howadji  exclaim  when 
they  set  forth  with  any  of  those  "  guides, 'philoso- 
phers, and  friends,"  the  couriers  of  the  Orient — the 
Dragomen. 

These  gentry  figure  well  in  the  Eastern  books. 
The  young  traveller,  already  enamored  of  Eothen's 
Dhemetri,  or  "VVarburton's  Mahmoud,  or  Harriet 
Marti  neau's  Alee,  leaps  ashore,  expecting  to  find  a 
very  Pythias  to  his  Damon  mood,  and  in  his  constant 
companion  to  embrace  a  concrete  Orient.  These  are 
his  Alexandrian  emotions  and  hopes.  Those  poets, 
Harriet  and  Eliot,  are  guilty  of  much.  Possibly  as 
the  youth  descends  the  Lebanon  to  Beyrout,  five 
months  later,  he  will  still  confess  that  it  was  the 
concrete  Orient ;  but  own  that  he  knew  not  the 
East,  in  those  merely  Mediterranean  moods  of  hope 
and  romantic  reading. 


THE    DRAGOMEN.  11 

The  Howadji  lands  at  Alexandria,  and  is  immedi- 
ately invested  by  long  lines  of  men  in  bright  tur- 
bans and  baggy  breeches.  If  you  have  a  slight 
poetic  tendency,  it  is  usually  too  much  for  you 
You  succumb  to  the  rainbow  sash  and  red  slippers. 
"  Which  is  Alee  ?"  cry  you,  in  enthusiasm  ;  and  lo  ! 
all  are  Alee.  No,  but  with  Dhemetri  might  there 
not  be  rich  Eastern  material  and  a  brighter  Eothen  ? 
Yes,  but  all  are  Dhemetri.  "  Mahmoud,  Mah- 
moud !"  and  the  world  of  baggy  breeches  responds, 
"  Yes,  sir." 

If  you  are  heroic,  you  dismiss  the  confusing  crowd, 
and  then  the  individuals  steal  separately  and  secret- 
ly to  your  room  and  claim  an  audience.  They  have 
volumes  of  their  own  praise.  Travelling  Cockaigne 
has  striven  to  express  its  satisfaction  in  the  most 
graceful  and  epigrammatic  manner.  The  "  charac- 
ters" in  all  the  books  have  a  sonnet-like  air,  each  fill- 
ing its  page,  and  going  to  the  same  tune.  There  is  no 
scepticism,  and  no  dragoman  has  a  fault.  Records  of 
such  intelligence,  such  heroism,  such  perseverance, 
honesty  and  good  cooking,  exist  in  no  other  litera- 
ture. It  is  Eothen  and  the  other  poets  in  a  more 
portable  form. 

Some  Howadji  can  not  resist  the  sonnets  and  the 
slippers,  and  take  the  fatal  plunge  even  at  Alexan- 
dria. Wines  and  the  ecstatic  Irish  doctor  did  so 


12  A*  I  LE    NOTES. 

under  our  eyes,  and  returned  six  weeks  later  to 
Cairo,  from  the  upper  Nile,  with  just  vigor  enough 
remaining  to  get  rid  of  their  man.  For  the  Turkish 
costume  and  the  fine  testimonials  are  only  the  illu- 
minated initials  of  the  chapter.  Very  darkly  mo- 
notonous is  the  reading  that  follows. 

The  Dragoman  is  of  four  species  :  the  Maltese,  or 
the  able  knave, — the  Greek,  or  the  cunning  knave, 
— the  Syrian,  or  the  active  knave, — and  the  Egyp- 
tian, or  the  stupid  knave.  They  wear,  generally, 
the  Eastern  costume.  But  the  Maltese  and  the 
Greeks  often  sport  bad  hats  and  coats,  and  call 
themselves  Christians.  They  are  the  most  igno- 
rant, vain,  incapable,  and  unsatisfactory  class  of  men 
that  the  wandering  Howadji  meets.  They  travel 
constantly  the  same  route,  yet  have  no  eyes  to  see 
nor  ears  to  hear.  If  on  the  Kile,  they  smoke  and 
sleep  in  the  boat.  If  on  the  desert,  they  smoke  and 
sleep  on  the  camel.  If  in  Syria,  they  smoke  and 
sleep,  if  they  can,  on  the  horse.  It  is  their  own 
comfort — their  own  convenience  and  profit,  which 
they  constantly  pursue.  The  Howadji  is  a  bag  of 
treasure  thrown  by  a  kind  fate  upon  their  shores, 
and  they  are  the  wreckers  who  squeeze,  tear,  and 
pull  him,  top,  bottom,  and  sideways,  to  bleed  him 
of  his  burden. 

They  should  be  able  to  give  you  every  information 


THE    UKAGOMEN.  13 

about  your  boat,  and  what  is  necessary,  and  what 
useless.  Much  talk  you  do  indeed  get,  and  assurance 
that  every  tiling  will  be  accurately  arranged ;  but 
you  are  fairly  afloat  upon  the  Nile  before  you  dis- 
cover how  lost  upon  the  dragoman  have  been  all  his 
previous  voyages. 

With  miserable  weakness  they  seek  to  smooth  the 
moment,  and  perpetually  baffle  your  plans,  by  tell- 
ing you  not  the  truth,  but  what  they  suppose  you 
wish  the  truth  to  be.  .  Nothing  is  ever  more  than 
an  hour  or  two  distant.  They  involve  you  in  absurd 
arrangements  because  "  it  is  the  custom  ;"  and  he  is  a 
hardy  Howadji  who  struggles  against  the  vis  iner- 
tiae  of  ignorant  incapacity  and  miserable  cheating 
through  the  whole  tour. 

Active  intelligence  on  the  Howadji's  part  is  very 
disgusting  to  them.  If  he  scrutinize  his  expenses, — 
if  he  pretend  to  know  his  own  will  or  way — much 
more  to  have  it  executed,  the  end  of  things  clearly 
approaches  to  the  dragomanic  mind.  The  small 
knaveries  of  cheating  in  the  price  of  every  thing 
purchased,  and  in  the  amount  of  bucksheesh  or  gra- 
tuity on  all  occasions,  are  not  to  be  seriously  heeded, 
because  they  are  universal.  The  real  evils  are  the 
taking  you  out  of  your  way  for  their,  own  comfort, 
— the  favoring  a  poor  resting  place  or  hotel,  because 
they  are  well  paid  there, — and  the  universally 


14  NILE    NOTES. 

unreliable  information  that  they  afford.  "Were  they 
good  servants,  it  were  some  consolation.  But  a  ser- 
vile Eastern  can  not  satisfy  the  western  idea  of  good 
service. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  bad  year  for  dragomen,  as  it  was 
for  potatoes.  But  such  was  the  result  of  universal 
testimony. 

Nero  found  a  Greek  at  Alexandria,  whose  recom- 
mendations from  men  known  to  him  were  quite  en- 
thusiastic. He  engaged  him,  and  the  dragoman 
was  the  sole  plague  of  Nero's  Egyptian  experience, 
but  one  combining  the  misery  of  all  the  rest.  There 
were  Wind  and  Rain,  too,  whose  man  was  a  crack 
dragoman,  and  of  all  such,  oh  !  enthusiastic  reader, 
especially  beware.  They  returned  to  Cairo  chant- 
ing "miserere  —  miserere"  —  and  in  the  spring, 
sought  solace  in  the  bosom  of  the  scarlet  Lady  at 
Jerusalem.  For  which  latter  step,  however,  not 
even  irate  I,  hold  the  dragoman  responsible. 

Mutton  Suet's  man  furnished  his  Nile  larder, 
at  the  rate  of  eight  boxes  of  sweet  biscuit,  and 
twenty  bottles  of  pickles  to  two  towels — a  lickerous 
larder,  truly,  but  I  am  convinced  Mutton  Suet's 
man's  palate  required  sharp  stimulants. 

The  little  Verde  Giovane  and  Gunning  changed 
their  dragoman  weekly  while  they  remained  at 
Cairo.  The  difficulty  was  not  all  on  one  side.  The 


THE    DRAGOMEN1.  15 

dragoman  wanted  to  be  master,  and  Verde  knew 
not  how  to  help  it,  and  Gunning  was  ill  of  a  fever. 
Those  excellent  Howadji  did  not  recover  from  the 
East  without  a  course  of  a  half-dozen  dragomen. 

But  most  melancholy  was  the  case  of  a  Howadji, 
whom  we  met  wandering  in  the  remote  regions  of 
the  Nile.  He  was  a  kind  of  flying  Dutchman,  al- 
ways gliding  about  in  a  barque  haunted  by  a  drago- 
man, and  a  reis  or  captain,  who  would  not  suffer 
him  to  arrive  anywhere.  The  moons  of  three 
months  had  waxed  and  waned  since  they  left  Cairo. 
Winds  never  blew  for  that  unhappy  boat,  currents 
were  always  adverse, — illness  and  inability  seized 
the  crew.  Landing  at  lonely  towns  the  dragoman 
sold  him  his  own  provisions,  previously  sent  ashore 
for  the  purpose,  at  an  admirable  advance.  Gradu- 
ally he  was  becoming  the  Ancient  Mariner  of  the 
Nile.  He  must  have  grown  grisly, — I  am  sure  that 
he  was  sad. 

One  day  as  the  fated  boat  ordahabieh  came  spec- 
trally sliding  over  the  calm,  our  dragoman  told  us 
the  story  with  sardonic  smiles,  and  we  looked  with 
awful  interest  at  the  haunted  barque.  I  saw  the 
demoniac  dragoman  smoking  by  the  kitchen,  and  the 
crew,  faintly  rowing,  sang  the  slowest  of  slow 
songs.  The  flag,  wind-rent  and  sun-bleached,  clung 
in  motionless  despair  to  the  mast.  The  sails  were 


16  NILE    NOTES. 

furled  away  almost  out  of  sight.  It  was  a  windless 
day,  and  the  sun  shone  spectrally. 

I  looked  for  the  mariner,  but  saw  only  a  female 
figure  in  a  London  bonnet  sitting  motionless  at  the 
cabin  window. 

The  dragoman-ridden  was  probable  putting  on 
his  hat.  Was  it  a  game  of  their  despair  to  play 
arriving,  and  getting  ready  to  go — for  the  lady  sat 
as  ladies  sit  in  steamers,  when  they  near  the  wharf 
— or  was  this  only  a  melancholy  remembrance  of 
days  and  places,  when  they  could  don  hat  and  bon- 
net, and  choose  their  own  way — or  simply  a  mood 
of  madness  ? 

They  passed,  and  we  saw  them  no  more.  I  never 
heard  of  them  again.  They  are  still  sailing  on, 
doubtless,  and  you  will  hear  the  slow  song  and  see 
the  unnecessary  bonnet,  and  behold  a  Howadji  buy- 
ing his  "own  provisions.  Say  "  Pax  vobiscum"  as 
they  pass,  nor  bless  the  dragomen. 

I  heard  but  one  Howadji  speak  well  of  his  drago- 
man, and  he  only  comparatively  and  partially.  At 
Jerusalem  the  Rev.  Dr.  Duck  dismissed  his  Maltese, 
and  took  an  Egyptian — which  was  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Duck's  method  of  stepping  from  the  pan  into  the 
fire.  At  the  same  time,  .  Eschylus,  not  our  Greek,  but 
a  modern  man  of  affairs,  and  not  easily  appalled  at 
circumstances,  banished  his  brace  of  Maltese,  and 


THE    DRAGOMEN.  17 

declared  that  he  was  wild  with  dragomen,  and  did 
not  believe  a  decent  one  could  exist. 

Yet  Eschylus,  in  sad  seriousness  of  purpose  to 
accomplish  the  East,  took  another  dragoman  at 
Jerusalem,  a  baleful  mortal  with  one  eye,  and  a  more 
able  bandit  than  the  rest.  For  this  man  Eschylus 
paid  twenty  piastres  a  day,  board,  at  the  hotel  in 
Jerusalem.  Polyphemus  requested  him  with  a  noble 
frankness  not  to  give  the  money  to  him,  but  to  pay 
it  directly  to  the  landlord  in  person — meanwhile  he 
delayed  him,  and  delayed,  in  Jerusalem,  until  at 
parting,  the  landlord  with  equal  frankness  told 
Eschylus,  that  he  was  obliged  to  refund  to  the  drago- 
men every  thing  paid  for  them,  as  otherwise  he 
would  discover  that  some  cat  or  dog  had  twitched 
his  table  cloths,  and  destroyed  whole  services  of 
glass  and  china — and  this  best  hotel  in  the  East, 
was  to  be  discontinued  for  that  and  similar  reasons. 
For  the  landlord  had  sparks  of  human  sympathy 
even  with  mere  Howadji,  and  the  dragomen  had 
sworn  his  ruin.  All  Howadji  were  taken  to  another 
house,  and  it  was  only  by  positive  insistance  that 
we  reached  this. 

Of  all  the  knavery  of  Polyphemus,  this  book 
would  not  contain  the  history.  At  the  end  Eschy- 
lus told  him  quietly,  that  he  had  robbed  him  re- 
peatedly— that  since  engaging  him  he  had  heard 


18  NILE    NOTES. 

that  he  was  a  noted  scamp, — that  he  had  been  inso- 
lent to  Madame  Eschylus — that,  in  short — waxing 
warm  as  he  perorated,  that  he  was  a  damned  rascal- 
Then  he  paid  him, — for  litigation  is  useless  in  the 
East,  where  the  Christian  word  is  valueless, — in 
formed  him  that  all  English  Howadji  should  be 
informed  of  his  name  and  nature,  after  which,  Poly- 
phemus endeavored  to  kiss  his  hand  ! 

Then  consider  Leisurelie's  Domenico  Chiesa, 
Sunday  Church,  "  begging  your  pardon,  sir,  I  am  il 
primo  dragomano  del  mondo, — the  first  dragoman 
in  the  world." 

"  Domenico,"  said  Leisurelie  one  day  in  Jerusa- 
lem, "where  is  Mount  Calvary?"  You  know,  my 
young  friend  of  fourteen  years,  that  it  is  in  the 
church  of  the  holy  sepulchre — but  il  primo  drago- 
mano del  mondo  waved  his  hand  vaguely  around 
the  horizon,  with  his  eyes  wandering  about  the  far 
blue  mountains  of  Moab,  and  "  O  begging  your 
pardon,  sir,  it's  there,  just  there." 

Such  are  our  Arabic  interpreters,  such  your  con- 
crete Orient.  Yet  if  you  believe  all  your  dragoman 
says — if  you  will  only  believe  that  he  does  know 
something,  and  put  your  nose  into  his  fingers,  you 
will  go  very  smoothly  to  Beyrout,  dripping  gold  all 
the  way,  and  then  improvise  a  brief  pean  in  the 
book  of  sonnets.  But  if  the  Howadji  mean  to  be 


THE    DRAGOMEN.  19 

master  u*:,  romance  will  unroll  like  a  cloud  wreath 
from  tt  .it  T.oetic  tawny  friend,  and  he  will  find  all 
and  more  than  the  faults  of  a  European  courier, 
with  none  of  his  capacities. 

O,  golden-sleeved  Commander  of  the  Faithful, 
what  a  prelude  to  your  praises.  For  Mohammed 
was  the  best  we  saw,  and  so  agreed  all  who  knew 
him.  Dogberry  *?as  already  his  Laureate.  Moham- 
med was  truly  "  volerable  and  not  to  be  endured." 
He  was  ignorant,  vain,  and  cowardly,  but  fairly 
honest, — extremelv  good-humored,  and  an  abomina- 
ble cook.  He  was  t  devout  Muslim,  and  had  a  pious 
abhorrence  of  ham.  His  deportment  was  grave  and 
pompous,  blending  ihe  Turkish  and  Egyptian  ele- 
ments of  his  parentage.  Like  a  child  he  shrunk 
and  shrivelled  under  the  least  pain  or  exposure. 
But  he  loved  the  high  places  and  the  sweet  morsels  ; 
and  to  be  called  of  men,  Effendi,  dilated  his  soul 
with  delight.  He  was  always  well  dressed  in  the 
Egyptian  manner,  and  bent  in  awful  reverence  be- 
fore "  them  old  Turks"  who,  surrounded  by  a  mul- 
titudinous hareem,  and  an  army  of  slaves,  were  the 
august  peerage  of  his  imagination. 

His  great  glory,  however,  was  a  golden-sleeved 
bournouse  of  goat's  hair,  presented  to  him  at  Da- 
mascus by  some  friendly  Howadji.  This  he  gath- 
ered about  him  on  all  convenient  occasions  to 


20  NILE    NOTES. 

create  an  impression.  At  the  little  towns  on  the 
Nile,  and  among  the  Arabs  of  the  desert,  how  im- 
posing was  the  golden-sleeved  Commander  !  Occa- 
sionally he  waited  at  dinner  in  this  robe — and  then 
was  never  Jove  so  superbly  served.  Yet  the  gran- 
deur, as  usual,  was  inconsonant  with  agility,  and 
many  a  wrecked  dish  of  pudding  or  potatoes  paid 
the  penalty  of  splendor. 

So  here  our  commander  of  the  faithful  steps  into 
history,  goldenly  arrayed.  Let  him  not  speak  for 
himself.  For,  although  his  English  was  intelligi- 
ble and  quite  sufficient,  yet  he  recognized  no  auxili- 
ary but  "  fo,"  and  no  tense  but  the  present.  Hence, 
when  he  wished  to  say  that  the  tobacco  would  be 
milder  when  it  had  absorbed  the  water,  he  darkly 
suggested.  "  He  be  better  when  he  be  drink  his 
water ;"  and  a  huge  hulk  of  iron  lying  just  outside 
Cairo,  was  "  the  steamer's  saucepan  ;"  being  the 
boiler  of  a  Suez  steamer.  Nor  will  the  Pacha  for- 
get that  sunny  Syrian  morning,  when  the  com- 
mander led  us  far  and  far  out  of  our  way  for  a  "  short 
cut."  Wandering,  lost,  and  tangled  in  flaunting 
flowers,  through  long  valleys  and  up  steep  hillsides, 
we  emerged  at  length  upon  the  path  which  we 
ought  never  to  have  left,  and  the  good  commander 
lighting  his  chibouque  with  the  air  of  a  general 
lighting  his  cigar  after  victory,  announced  impres- 


THE    DRAGOMEN.  21 

sively,  "  I  be  found  that  way  by  my  sense,  by  my 
head!"  Too  vain  to  ask  or  to  learn,  he  subjected 
us  to  the  same  inconveniences  day  after  day,  for  the 
past  disappears  from  the  dragomanic  mind  as  ut- 
terly as  yesterday's  landscape  from  his  eye. 

The  moon  brightened  the  golden  sleeve  that  first 
Nile  evening,  as  the  commander  descended  the  steep 
bank,  superintending  the  embarking  of  the  luggage  ; 
and  while  he  spreads  the  cloth  and  the  crew  gather 
about  the  kitchen  to  sing,  we  will  hang  in  our 
gallery  the  portrait  of  his  coadjutor,  Hadji  Hamed, 
the  cook. 


III. 

HADJI    HAMED. 

I  WAS  donkeying  one  morning  through  the 
bazaars  of  Cairo,  looking  up  at  the  exquisitely 
elaborated  overhanging  lattices,  wondering  if  the 
fences  of  Paradise  were  not  so  rarely  inwrought, 
dreaming  of  the  fair  Persian  slave,  of  the  Princess 
Shemselnihar,  the  three  ladies  of  Bagdad,  and  other 
mere  star  dust,  my  eye  surfeiting  itself  the  while 
with  forms  and  costumes  that  had  hitherto  existed 
only  in  poems  and  pictures,  when  I  heard  suddenly, 
"  Have  you  laid  in  any  potatoes  ?"  and  beheld  beam- 
ing elderly  John  Bull  by  my  side. 

"It  occurred  to  me."  said  he,  "that  the  long  days 
upon  the  Nile  might  be  a  little  monotonous,  and  I 
thought  the  dinner  would  be  quite  an  event." 

"  Allah  !"  cried  I,  as  the  three  ladies  of  Bagdad 
faded  upon  my  fancy,  "  I  thought  we  should  live 
on  sunsets  on  the  Nile." 

The  beaming  elderly  Bull  smiled  quietly  and 
glanced  at  his  gentle  rotundity,  while  I  saw  bottles. 


HADJI    HAMED.  23 

boxes,  canisters,  baskets,  and  packages  of  all  sizes 
laid  aside  in  the  shop — little  anti-monotonous 
arrangements  for  the  Nile. 

"  I  hope  you  have  a  good  cook,"  said  John  Bull, 
as  he  moved  placidly  away  upon  his  donkey,  and 
was  lost  in  the  dim  depths  of  the  bazaar. 

Truly  we  were  loved  of  the  Prophet,  for  our  cook 
was  also  a  Mohammed,  an  Alexandrian,  and  doubt- 
less especially  favored,  not  for  his  name's  sake  only, 
but  because  he  had  been  a  pilgrim  to  Mecca,  and 
hence  a  Hadji  forever  after.  It  is  a  Mohammedan 
title,  equivalent  to  our  "major"  and  "colonel"  as 
a  term  of  honor,  with  this  difference,  that  with  us 
it  is  not  always  necessary  to  have  been  a  captain  to 
be  called  such  ;  but  in  Arabia  is  no  man  a  Hadji 
who  has  not  performed  the  Mecca  pilgrimage. 
Whether  a  pilgrimage  to  Paris,  and  devotion  to  sun- 
dry shrines  upon  the  Boulevards,  had  not  been  as 
advantageous  to  Hadji  Hamed  as  kissing  the  holy 
Mecca-stone,  was  a  speculation  which  we  did  not 
indulge  ;  for  his  cuisine  was  admirable. 

Yet  I  sometimes  fancied  the  long  lankness  of  the 
Hadji  Hamed's  figure,  streaming  in  his  far-flowing 
whiteness  of  garment  up  the  Boulevards,  and  claim- 
ing kindred  with  the  artistes  of  the  "  Cafe"  or  of  the 
"Maison  doree."  They  would  needs  have  sacrebleu'd. 
Yet  might  the  Hadji  have  well  challenged  them  to 


24  NILE    NOTES. 

the  "  kara  kooseh,"  or  "  vvarah  inahshee,"  or  the 
"  yakhnee,"  nor  have  feared  the  result.  Those  are 
the  cabalistic  names  of  stuffed  gourds,  of  a  kind  of 
mince-pie  in  a  pastry  of  cabbage  leaves,  and  of  a 
stewed  meat  seasoned  with  chopped  onions.  Nor 
is  the  Christian  palate  so  hopelessly  heretic  that  it 
can  not  enjoy  those  genuine  Muslim  morsels.  For 
we  are  nothing  on  the  Nile  if  not  eastern.  The 
Egyptians  like  sweet  dishes ;  even  fowls  they  stuff 
with  raisins,  and  the  rich  conclude  their  repasts 
with  draughts  of  khushaf — a  water  boiled  with 
raisins  and  sugar,  and  flavored  with  rose.  Mr. 
Lane  says  it  is  the  "  sweet  water"  of  the  Persians. 

And  who  has  dreamed  through  the  Arabian 
Nights  that  could  eat  without  a  thrill,  lamb  stuffed 
with  pistachio  nuts,  or  quaff  sherbet  of  roses,  haply 
of  violet,  without  a  vision  of  Haroun's  pavilion  and 
his  lovely  ladies  ?  Is  a  pastry  cook's  shop  a  mere 
pastry  cook's  shop,  when  you  eat  cheesecakes  there  ? 
Shines  not  the  Syrian  sun  suddenly  over  it,  making 
all  the  world  Damascus,  and  all  people  Agib,  and 
Benreddin  Hassan,  and  the  lady  of  beauty?  Even 
in  these  slightest  details  no  region  is  so  purely  the 
property  of  the  imagination  as  the  East.  We  know 
it  only  in  poetry,  and  although  there  is  dirt  and 
direful  deformity,  the  traveller  sees  it  no  more  than 
the  fast-flying  swallow,  to  whom  the  dreadful 


HADJI    HAMED.  25 

mountain  abysses  and  dumb  deserts  are  but  soft 
shadows  and  shining  lights  in  his  air-seen  picture 
of  the  world. 

The  materials  for  this  poetic  Eastern  larder  are 
very  few  upon  the  Nile ;  chickens  and  mutton  are 
the  staple,  and  chance  pigeons  shot  on  the  shore, 
during  a  morning's  stroll.  The  genius  of  the  artiste 
is  shown  in  his  adroit  arrangement  and  concealment 
of  this  monotonous  material.  Hadji  Hamed's  genius 
was  Italian,  and  every  dinner  was  a  success.  He 
made  every  dinner  the  event  which  Bull  was  con- 
vinced it  would  be,  or  ought  to  be  ;  and,  perhaps, 
after  all,  the  Hadji's  soft  custard  was  much  the  same 
as  the  sunset  diet  of  which,  in  those  Cairo  days,  I 
dreamed. 

Our  own  larder  was  very  limited  j  for  as  we 
sailed  slowly  along  those  shores  of  sleep,  we  observed 
too  intense  an  intimacy  of  the  goats  with  the  sheep. 

The  white-bearded  goats  wandered  too  much  at 
their  own  sweet  will  with  the  unsuspecting  lambs, 
or  the  not  all  unwilling  elderly  sheep.  The  natives 
are  not  fastidious,  and  do  not  mind  a  mellow  goat- 
flavor.  They  drink  a  favorite  broth  made  of  the 
head,  feet,  skin,  wool,  and  hoofs,  thrust  into  a  pot 
and  half  boiled.  Then  they  eat,  with  unction,  the 
unctuous  remains.  We  began  bravely  with  roast 

and  boiled  ;  but  orders  were  issued,  at  length,  that 
o 


26  NILE    NOTES. 

no  more  sheep  should  be  bought,  so  sadly  convinced 
were  the  Howadji  that  evil  communications  corrupt 
good  mutton. 

Yet  in  Herodotean  days,  the  goats  were  sacred  to 
one  part  of  Egypt,  and  sheep  to  another.  The 
Thebans  abstained  from  sheep,  and  sacrificed  goats 
only.  For  they  said,  that  Hercules  was  very  desir- 
ous of  seeing  Jupiter,  but  Jupiter  was  unwilling 
to  be  seen.  As  Hercules  persisted,  however,  Jupiter 
flayed  a  ram,  cut  off  the  head  and  held  it  before 
his  face,  and  having  donned  the  fleece,  so  showed 
himself  to  Hercules — hence,  our  familiar  Jupiter 
Ammon. 

But  those  of  the  Mendesian  district,  still  says 
Herodotus,  abstained  from  goats,  and  sacrificed 
sheep.  For  $hey  said  that  Pan  was  one  of  the  origi- 
nal eight  gods,  and  their  sculptors  and  painters 
represented  him  with  the  face  and  legs  of  a  goat. 
Why  they  did  so,  Herodotus  prefers  not  to  mention  ; 
as,  indeed,  our  good  father  of  history  was  so  careful 
of  his  children's  morals,  that  he  usually  preferred 
not  to  mention  precisely  what  they  most  wish  to 
know. 

It  is  curious  to  find  that  the  elder  Egyptians  had 
the  Jewish  and  Mohammedan  horror  of  swine.  The 
swine-herds  were  a  separate  race,  like  the  headsmen 
of  some  modern  lands,  and  married  among  them- 


HADJI    HAMEP.  27 

selves.  Herodotus  knows,  as  usual,  why  swine 
were  abhorred,  except  on  the  festivals  of  the  moon 
and  of  Bacchus,  but  as  usual  considers  it  more 
becoming  not  to  mention  the  reason. 

Is  it  not  strange,  as  we  sweep  up  the  broad  river, 
to  see  the  figure  of  that  genial,  garrulous  old  gossip, 
stalking  vaguely  through  the  dim  morning  twilight 
of  history,  plainly  seeing  what  we  can  never  know, 
audibly  conversing  with  us  of  what  he  will,  but 
ignoring  what  we  wish,  and  answering  no  questions 
forever?  One  of  the  profoundest  mysteries  of  the 
Egyptian  belief,  and,  in  lesser  degrees,  of  all  antique 
faiths,  constantly  and  especially  symbolized  through- 
out Egypt,  Herodotus  evidently  knew  perfectly 
from  his  friendship  with  the  priests,  but  perpetually 
his  conscience  dictates  silence. — Amen,  O  venerable 
Father. 

I  knew  some  bold  Howadji  who  essayed  a  croco- 
dile banquet.  They  were  served  with  crocodile 
chops  and  steaks,  and  crocodile  boiled,  roasted,  and 
stewed.  They  talked  very  cheerfully  of  it  afterward  ; 
but '  each  one  privately  confessed  that  the  flesh 
tasted  like  abortive  lobster,  saturated  with  musk. 

Hadji  Hamed  cooked  no  crocodile,  and  had  no 
golden-sleeved  garment.  He  wore  'eree  or  cotton 
drawers,  past  their  prime,  and  evidently  originally 
made  for  lesser  legs.  That  first  evening  he  fluttered 


28  NILE    NOTES. 

about  the  deck  in  a  long  white  robe,  like  a  solemn- 
faced  wag  playing  ghost  in  a  churchyard.  By  day 
he  looked  like  a  bird  of  prey,  with  long  legs  and  a 
hooked  bill. 


IV. 

THE   IBIS    SINGS, 

WHILE  the  Hadji  Hamed  fluttered  about  the 
deck,  and  the  commander  served  his  kara  kooseh, 
the  crew  gathered  around  the  bow  and  sang. 
.  The  stillness  of  early  evening  had  spelled  the 
river,  nor  was  the  strangeness  dissolved  by  that 
singing.  The  men  crouched  in  a  circle  upon  the 
deck,  and  the  reis,  or  captain,  thrummed  the  tara- 
buka,  or  Arab  drum,  made  of  a  fish-skin  stretched 
upon  a  gourd.  Raising  their  hands,  the  crew  clap- 
ped them  above  their  heads,  in  perfect  time,  not 
ringingly,  but  with  a  dead  dull  thump  of  the 
palms  —  moving  the  whole  arm  to  bring  them 
together.  They  swung  their  heads  from  side 
to  side,  and  one  clanked  a  chain  in  unison.  So 
did  these  people  long  before  the  Ibis  nestled  to 
this  bank,  long  before  there  were  Americans  to 
listen. 

For  when  Diana  was  divine,  and  thousands  of 
men  and  women  came  floating  down   the  Nile  in 


30  NILE    NOTES. 

barges  tc  celebrate  her  festival,  they  sang  and 
clapped,  played  the  castanets  and  flute,  stifling  the 
voices  of  Arabian  and  Lybian  echoes  with  a  wild 
roar  of  revelry.  They,  too,  sang  a  song  that  came 
to  them  from  an  unknown  antiquity,  Linus,  their 
first  and  only  song,  the  dirge  of  the  son  of  the  first, 
king  of  Egypt. 

This  might  have  been  that  dirge  that  the  crew 
sang  in  a  mournful  minor.  Suddenly  one  rose  and 
led  the  song,  in  sharp  jagged  sounds,  formless  as 
lightning.  "  He  fills  me  the  glass  full  and  gives 
me  to  drink,"  sang  the  leader,  and  the  low  meas- 
ured chorus  throbbed  after  him,  "  Hummeleager 
malooshee."  The  sounds  were  not  a  tune,  but  a 
kind  of  measured  recitative.  It  went  on  constantly 
faster  and  faster,  exciting  them,  as  the  Shakers 
excite  themselves,  until  a  tall  gaunt  Nubian  rose  in 
the  moonlight  and  danced  in  trie  centre  of  the  cir- 
cle, like  a  gay  ghoul  among  his  fellows. 

The  dancing  was  monotonous,  like  the  singing,  a 
simple  jerking  of  the  muscles.  He  shook  his  arms 
from  the  elbows  like  a  Shaker,  and  raised  himself 
alternately  upon  both  feet.  Often  the  leader  re- 
peated the  song  as  a  solo,  then  the  voices  died 
away,  the  ghoul  crouched  again,  and  the  hollow 
throb  of  the  tarabuka  continued  as  an  accompani- 
ment to  the  distant  singing  of  Nero's  crew,  which 


THE    IBIS    SINGS.  31 

came  in  fitful  gusts  through  the  little  grove  of 
sharp  slim  masts — 

"  If  you  meet  my  sweetheart, 
Give  her  my  respects." 

The  melancholy  monotony  of  this  singing  in  unison 
harmonized  with  the  vague  feelings  of  that  first 
Nile  night.  The  simplicity  of  the  words  became 
the  perpetual  childishness  of  the  men,  so  that  it 
was  not  ludicrous.  It  was  clearly  the  music  and 
words  of  a  race  just  better  than  the  brutes.  If  a 
poet  could  translate  into  sound  the  expression  of  a 
fine  dog's  face,  or  that  of  a  meditative  cow,  the 
Howadji  would  fancy  that  he  heard  Nile  music. 
For,  after  all,  that  placid  and  perfect  animal  ex- 
pression would  be  melancholy  humanity.  And 
with  the  crew  only  the  sound  was  sad ;  they 
smiled  and  grinned  and  shook  their  heads  with 
•  intense  satisfaction.  The  evening  and  the  scene 

c? 

were  like  a  chapter  of  Mungo  Park.  I  heard  the 
African  mother  sing  to  him  as  he  lay  sick  upon  her 
mats,  and  the  world  and  history  forgotten,  those 
strange  sad  sounds  drew  me  deep  into  the  dumb 
mystery  of  Africa. 

But  the  musical  Howadji  will  find  a  fearful  void 
in  his  Eastern  life.  The  Asiatic  has  no  ear  and  no 
soul  for  music.  Like  other  savages  and  children 


32  NILE    NOTES. 

he  loves  a  noise  and  he  plays  on  shrill  jipes — on 
the  tarabuka,  on  the  tar  or  tambourine,  and  a  sharp 
one-stringed  fiddle,  or  rabab.  Of  course,  in  your 
first  oriental  days,  you  will  decline  no  invitation, 
but  you  will  grow  gradually  deaf  to  all  entreaties 
of  friends  ox  dragomen  to  sally  forth  and  hear  music. 
You  will  remind  him  that  you  did  not  come  to  the 
East  to  go  to  Bedlam. 

This  want  of  music  is  not  strange,  for  silence  is 
natural  to  the  East  and  the  tropics.  When,  sitting 
quietly  at  home,  in  midsummer,  sweeping  ever  sun- 
ward in  the  growing  heats,  we  at  length  reach  the 
tropics  in  the  fixed  fervor  of  a  July  noon,  the  day  is 
rapt,  the  birds  are  still,  the  wind  swoons,  and  the 
burning  sun  glares  silence  on  the  world. 

The  Orient  is  that  primeval  and  perpetual  noon. 
That  very  heat  explains  to  you  the  voluptuous 
elaboration  of  its  architecture,  the  brilliance  of  its 
costume,  the  picturesqueness  of  its  life.  But  no* 
Mozart  was  needed  to  sow  Persian  gardens  with 
roses  breathing  love  and  beauty,  no  Beethoven  to 
build  mighty  Himalayas,  no  Rossini  to  sparkle  and 
sing  with  the  birds  and  streams.  Those  realities 
are  there,  of  wrhich  the  composers  are  the  poets  to 
western  imaginations.  In  the  East,  you  feel  and 
see  music,  but  hear  it  never. 

Yet  in  Cairo  and  Damascus  the  poets  sit  at  the 


THE    IBIS    SINGS.  33 

cafes,  surrounded  by  the  forms  and  colors  of  their 
songs,  and  recite  the  romances  of  the  Arabian 
Nights,  or  of  Aboo  Zeyd,  or  of  Antar,  with  no 
other  accompaniment  than  the  tar  or  the  rabab, 
then  called  the  "  poet's  viol,"  and  in  the  same 
monotonous  strain.  Sometimes  the  single  strain 
is  touching,  as  when  on  our  way  to  Jerusalem,  the 
too  enamored  camel-driver,  leading  the  litter  of  the 
fair  Armenian,  saddened  the  silence  of  the  desert 
noon  with  a  Syrian  song.  The  high  shrill  notes 
trembled  and  rang  in  the  air.  The  words  said 
little,  but  the  sound  was  a  lyric  of  sorrow.  The 
fair  Armenian  listened  silently  as  the  caravan 
wound  slowly  along,  her  eyes  musily  fixed  upon 
the  east,  where  the  flower-fringed  Euphrates  flows 
through  Bagdad  to  the  sea.  The  fair  Armenian 
had  her  thoughts  and  the  camel-driver  his  ;  also 
the  accompanying  Howadji  listened  and  had 
theirs. 

The  Syrian  songs  of  the  desert  are  very  sad. 
They  harmonize  with  the  burning  monotony  of 
the  landscape  in  their  long  recitative  and  shrill 
wail.  The  camel  steps  more  willingly  to  that 
music,  but  the  Howadji,  swaying  upon  his  back, 
is  tranced  in  the  sound,  so  naturally  born  of  si 
lence. 

Meanwhile  our  crew  are  singing,  although  we 

« 


34  NILE    NOTES. 

have  slid  upo'n  their  music  and  the  moonlight,  far 
forward  into  the  desert.  But  these  are  the  forms 
and  feelings  that  their  singing  suggested.  While 
they  sang  I  wandered  over  Sahara,  and  was  lost  in 
the  lonely  Libyan  hills, — a  thousand  simple  stories, 

thousand  ballads  of  love  and  woe,  trooped  like 
drooping  birds  through  the  sky-like  vagueness  of 
my  mind.  Rosamond  Grey,  and  the  child  of  Elle 
passed  phantom-like  with  veiled  faces, — for  love, 
and  sorrow,  and  delight,  are  cosmopolitan,  building 
bowers  indiscriminately  of  palm-treees  or  of  pines. 

The  voices  died  away  like  the  muezzins',  whose 
cry  is  the  sweetest  and  most  striking  of  all  eastern 
sounds.  It  trembles  in  long  rising  and  falling 
cadences  from  the  balcony  of  the  minaret,  more 
humanly  alluring  than  bells,  and  more  respectful  of 
the  warm  stillness  of  Syrian  and  Egyptian  days. 
Heard  in  Jerusalem  it  has  especial  power.  You  sit 
upon  your  housetop  reading  the  history  whose  pro- 
foundest  significance  is  simple  and  natural  in  that 
inspiring  clime — and  as  your  eye  wanders  from  the 
aerial  dome  of  Omar,  beautiful  enough  to  have  been 
a  dome  of  Solomon's  temple,  and  over  the  olives  of 
Gethsemane  climbs  the  mount  of  Olives — the  balmy 
air  is  suddenly  filled  with  a  murmurous  cry  like  a 
cheek  suddenly  rose-suffused — a  sound  near,  and  far, 
and  everywhere,  but  soft,  and  vibrating,  and  alluring, 


THE    IBIS    SINGS.  35 

until  you  would  fain  don  turban,  kaftan,  and  slip- 
pers, arid  kneeling  in  the  shadow  of  a  cypress  on 
the  sun-flooded  marble  court  of  Omar,  would  be  the 
mediator  of  those  faiths,  nor  feel  yourself  a  recreant 
Christian. 

Once  I  heard  the  muezzin  cry  from  a  little  village 
on  the  edge  of  the  desert,  in  the  starlight,  before 
the  dawn.  It  was  only  a  wailing  voice  in  the  air. 
The  spirits  of  the  desert  were  addressed  in  their 
own  language, — or  was  it  themselves  lamenting, 
like  water  spirits  to  the  green  boughs  overhanging 
them,  that  they  could  never  know  the  gladness  of 
the  green  world,  but  were  forever  demons  and  deni- 
zens of  the  desert?  But  the  tones  trembled  away 
without  echo  or  response  into  the  starry  solitude ; 
— Al-la-hu  ak-bar,  Al-la-hu  ak-bar  ! 

So  with  songs  and  pictures,  with  musings,  and 
the  dinner  of  a  Mecca  pilgrim,  passed  the  first 
evening  upon  the  Nile.  The  Ibis  clung  to  the  bank 
at  Boulak  all  that  night.  We  called  her  Ibis  be- 
cause the  sharp  lateen  sails  are  most  like  wings, 
upon  the  Egyptian  Nile  was  no  winged  thing  of 
fairer  fame.  We  prayed  Osiris  that  the  law  of 
his  religion  might  yet  be  enforced  against  winds  and 
waves.  For  whoever  killed  an  Ibis,  by  accident  or 
willfully,  necessarily  suffered  death. 

The  Lotus  is  a  sweeter  name,  but  consider  all  the 


36  NILE    NOTES. 

poets  who  have  so  baptized  their  boats  !  Besides, 
soothly  saying,  this  dahabieh  of  ours,  hath  no 
flower  semblance,  and  is  rather  fat  than  fairy.  The 
zealous  have  even  called  their  craft  Papyrus,  but 
poverty  has  no  law. 


V. 


WE  are  not  quite  off  yet.  Eastern  life  is  leisurely. 
It  has  the  long  crane  neck  of  enjoyment — and  you, 
impatient  reader,  must  leave  your  hasty  habits,  and 
no  longer  bolt  your  pleasure  as  you  do  your  Tre- 
mont  or  Astor  dinner,  but  taste  it  all  the  way  down, 
as  our  turbaned  friends  do.  Ask  your  dragoman 
casually,  and  he  will  regale  you  with  choice  in- 
stances of  this  happy  habitude  of  the  Orientals — or 
read  the  Arabian  Nights  in  the  original,  or  under- 
stand literally  the  romances  that  the  poets  recite  at 
at  the  cafes,  and  you  will  learn  how  much  you  are 
born  to  lose — being  born  as  you  were,  an  American, 
with  no  time  to  live. 

Your  Nile  crew  is  a  dozen  nondescripts.  They 
are  Arabs — Egyptians — Nubians,  and  half-breeds  of 
all  kinds.  They  wear  a  white  or  red  cap,  and  a 
long  flowing  garment  which  the  Howadji  naturally 
calls  "  night-gown,"  but  which  they  term  "  zaa- 
boot" — although  as  Mrs.  Bull  said,  she  thought 


38  NILE    NOTES. 

night-gown  the  better  name.  It  is  a  convenient 
dress  for  river  mariners  ;  for  they  have  only  to  throw 
it  off,  and  are  at  once  ready  to  leap  into  the  stream 
if  the  boat  grounds — with  no  more  incumbrance 
than  Undine's  uncle  Kiihleborn  always  had.  On 
great  occasions  of  reaching  a  town  they  wear  the 
'eree  or  drawers,  and  a  turban  of  white  cotton. 

Our  reis  was  a  placid  little  Nubian,  with  illim- 
itable lips,  and  a  round,  soft  eye.  He  was  a  femi- 
nine creature,  and  crept  felinely  about  the  boat  on 
his  little  spongy  feet,  often  sitting  all  day  upon  the 
bow,  somnolently  smoking  his  chibouque,  and  let- 
ting us  run  aground.  He  was  a  Hadji  too ;  but, 
except  that  he  did  no  work,  seemed  to  have  no 
especial  respect  from  the  crew.  He  put  his  finger 
into  the  dish  with  them,  and  fared  no  better.  Had  he 
been  a  burly  brute,  the  savages  would  have  feared 
him ;  and,  with  them,  fear  is  the  synonym  of 
respect. 

The  grisly  Ancient  Mariner  was  the  real  captain 
— an  old,  gray  Egyptian,  who  crouched  all  day  long 
over  the  tiller,  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  his 
firm  eye  fixed  upon  the  river  and  the  shore.  He 
looked  like  a  heap  of  ragged  blankets,  smouldering 
away  internally,  and  emitting  smoke  at  a  chance 
orifice.  But  at  evening  he  descended  to  the  deck, 
took  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  chatted  till  midnight.  As 


THE    CREW.  39 

long  as  the  wind  held  to  the  sail,  he  held  to  the 
tiller.  The  Ancient  Mariner  was  the  real  worker 
of  the  Ibis,  and  never  made  faces  at  it,  although  the 
crew  bemoaned  often  enough  their  hard  fate.  Of 
course,  he  tried  to  cheat  at  first,  but  when  he  felt 
the  eye  of  the  Pacha  looking  through  him  and 
turning  up  his  little  cunning,  he  tried  it  no  more, 
or  only  spasmodically,  at  intervals,  from  habit. 

Brawny,  one-eyed  Seyd  was  first  officer,  the  lead- 
er of  the  working  chorus,  and  of  the  hard  pulling 
and  pushing.  He  had  put  out  his  own  eye,  like 
other  Egyptians,  many  of  whom  did  the  same  office 
to  their  children  to  escape  Mehemet  Ali's  con- 
scription. He  was  a  good-natured,  clumsy  boor — a 
being  in  the  ape  stage  of  development.  He  proved 
the  veracity  of  the  "  Vestiges,"  that  we  begin  in  a 
fishy  state,  and  advance  through  the  tailed  and 
winged  ones.  "  We  have  had  fins,  we  may  have 
wings."  I  doubt  if  Seyd  had  yet  fairly  taken  in  his 
tail — he  was  growing.  Had  I  been  a  German  natu- 
ralist, I  should  have  seized  the  good  Seyd  and  pre- 
sented him  to  some  "  Durchlauchtiger,"  king  or 
kaiser,  as  an  ourang-outang  from  the  white  Nile ; 
and  I  am  sure  the  Teutons  would  have  decreed  it, 
a  "  sehr  ausgezeichnete"  specimen. 

Seyd,  I  fear,  was  slightly  sensual.  He  had  ulte- 
rior views  upon  the  kitchen  drippings.  While  the 


40  NILE    NOTES. 

Howadji  dined,  he  sat  like  an  ourang-outang,  gazing 
with  ludicrous  intensity  at  the  lickerish  morsels, 
then  shifted  into  some  clumsier  squat,  so  that  the 
Howadji  could  not  maintain  becoming  gravity.  At 
times  he  imbibed  cups  of  coffee  privately  in  the 
kitchen  regions,  then  gurgled  his  cocoa-nut  nargileh 
with  spasmodic  vigor. 

Seyd  fulfilled  other  functions  not  strictly  within 
his  official  walk.  He  wrashed  the  deck,  brought 
coals  to  the  chibouque,  cleaned  the  knives  and 
scraped  kettles  and  pans.  But  after  much  watch- 
ing, I  feared  that  Seyd  was  going  backward — devel- 
oping the  wrong  way ;  for  he  became  more  baboonisli 
and  less  human  every  day.  His  feet  were  incredi- 
ble. I  had  not  seen  the  Colossi  then.  Generally, 
he  was  barefooted.  But  sometimes,  O  goddess  of 
Paris  kids !  he  essayed  slippers.  Then  no  bemired 
camel  ever  extricated  himself  more  ponderously  pe- 
dalled. These  leather  cases,  that  might  have  been 
heir-looms  of  Memnon,  were  the  completion  of  his 
full  dress.  Ah,  Brummell!  Seyd  en  grande  tenve 
was  a  stately  spectacle. 

There  was  Saleh  or  Satan,  a  cross  between  the 
porcupine  and  the  wrild-cat,  whom  I  disliked  as  de- 
voutly as  the  Rev.  Dr.  Duck  did  the  devil.  And 
Aboo  Seyd,  a  little  old-maidish  Bedoueen,  who  told 
wonderful  stories  to  the  crew  and  prayed  endlessly. 


THE    CREW.  41 

He  was  very  vain  and  direfully  ugly,  short,  and 
speckled,  and  squat.  On  the  Nile  I  believed  in 
necromancy,  and  knew  Aboo  Seyd  to  be  really  a 
tree-toad  humanized.  I  speculated  vainly  upon  his 
vanity.  It  was  the  only  case  wlfere  I  never  could 
suspect  the  secret.  f 

Great  gawky  Abdallah  then,  God's  favorite  as  his 
name  imports,  and  a  trusty  mastiff  of  a  man.  Ab- 
dallah had  few  human  characteristics,  and  was  much 
quizzed  by  the  crew  under  Satan's  lead.  He  was 
invaluable  for  plunging  among  the  grass  and  bushes, 
or  into  the  water  for  pigeons  which  the  Pacha  had 
shot.  And  he  loved  his  townsman  Aboo  Tar,  or 
Congo,  as  we  called  him,  as  if  his  heart  were  as 
huge  as  his  body.  Congo  was  the  youngest  and 
brightest  of  the  crew.  He  was  black  and  slim,  and 
although  not  graceful,  moved  rapidly  and  worked 
well.  The  little  Congo  was  the  only  one  of  the 
crew  who  inspired  human  interest. 

They  are  all  bad  workers,  and. lazy  exceedingly. 
Never  was  seen  such  confused  imbecility  of  action 
and  noise,  as  in  the  shifting  of  sail.  The  ropes  are 
twisted  and  tangled,  and  the  red  and  black  legs  are 
twisted  and  tangled  in  the  trouble  to  extricate  them. 
Meanwhile  the  boat  conies  into  the  wind,  the  great 
sails  flap  fiercely,  mad  to  be  deprived  of  it ;  the 
boats  that  had  drifted  behind  come  up,  even  pass, 


42  NILE    NOTES. 

and  the  Pacha,  wrapped  in  his  capote,  swears  a  little 
to  ease  his  mind. 

Yet  that  Nile  poet,  Harriet  Martineau,  speaks  of 
the  "  savage  faculty"  in  Egypt.  But  "  faculty"  is 
a  Western  gift.  Savages  with  faculty  may  become 
a  leading  race.  But  a  leading  race  never  degener- 
ates, so  long  as  faculty  remains.  The  Egyptians 
and  Easterns  are  not  savages,  they  are  imbeciles. 
It  is  the  English  fashion  to  laud  the  Orient,  and  to 
prophecy  a  renewed  grandeur,  as  if  the  East  could 
ever  again  be  as  bright  as  at  sunrise.  The  Easterns 
are  picturesque  and  handsome,  as  is  no  nation  with 
faculty.  The  coarse  costume  of  a  Nile  sailor  shames, 
in  dignity  and  grace,  the  most  elaborate  toilet  of 
Western  saloons.  It  is  drapery  whose  grace  all  men 
admire,  and  which  all  artists  study  in  the  antique. 
Western  life  is  clean,  and  comely,  and  comfortable, 
but  it  is  not  picturesque. 

Therefore,  if  you  would  enjoy  the  land,  you  must 
be  a  poet,  and  not  a  philosopher.  To  the  hurrying 
Howadji,  the  prominent  interest  is  the  picturesque 
one.  For  any  other  purpose,  he  need  not  be  there. 
Be  a  pilgrim  of  beauty  and  not  of  morals  or  of  poli- 
tics, if  you  would  realize  your  dream.  History 
sheds  moonlight  over  the  antique  years  of  Egypt, 
and  by  that  light  you  cannot  study.  Believe,  be- 
fore you  begin,  that  the  great  Asian  mystery  which 


THE    CREW.  43 

Disraeli's  mild-minded  Tancred  sougb.t  to  pene- 
trate, is  the  mystery  of  death.  If  you  do  not,  then 
settle  it  upon  the  data  you  have  at  home  ;  for  unless 
you  come  able  and  prepared  for  profoundest  research 
and  observation,  a  rapid  journey  through  a  land 
whose  manners  and  language  you  do  not  understand, 
and  whose  spirit  is  utterly  novel  to  you,  will  ili 
qualify  you  to  discourse  of  its  fate  and  position. 

That  the  East  will  never  regenerate  itself,  con- 
temporary history  shows ;  nor  has  any  nation  of 
history  culminated  twice.  The  spent  summer  re- 
blooms  no  more — the  Indian  summer  is  but  a  memo- 
ry and  a  delusion.  The  sole  hope  of  the  East  is 
Western  inoculation.  The  child  must  suckle  the 
age  of  the  parent,  and  even  "  Medea's  wondrous 
alchemy"  will  not  restore  its  peculiar  prime.  If  the 
East  awaken,  it  will  be  no  longer  in  the  turban 
and  red  slippers,  but  in  hat  and  boots.  The  West 
is  the  sea  that  advances  forever  upon  the  shore,  the 
shore  cannot  stay  it,  but  becomes  the  bottom  of 
the  ocean.  The  Western  who  lives  in  the  Orient, 
does  not  assume  the  kaftan  and  the  baggy  breeches, 
and  those  of  his  Muslim  neighbors  shrink  and  disap- 
pear before  his  coat  and  pantaloons.  The  Turkish 
army  is  clothed  like  the  armies  of  Europe.  The 
grand  Turk  himself,  Mohammed's  vicar,  the  Com- 
mander of  the  Faithful,  has  laid  away  the  magnifi  • 


44  NILE    NOTES. 

cence  of  Haroun  Alrashid.  and  wears  the  simple  red 
tarboosh,  and  a  stiff  suit  of  military  blue.  Cairo  is 
an  English  station  to  India,  and  the  Howadji  does 
not  drink  sherbet  upon  the  Pyramids,  but  cham- 
pagne. The  choice  Cairo  of  our  eastern  imagination 
is  contaminated  with  carriages.  They  are  showing 
the  secrets  of  the  streets  to  the  sun.  Their  silence 
is  no  longer  murmurous,  but  rattling.  The  Uzbee- 
keeyah — public  promenade  of  Cairo — is  a  tea-garden, 
of  a  Sunday  afternoon  crowded  with  ungainly 
Franks,  listening  to  bad  music.  Ichabod,  Ichabod ' 
steam  has  towed  the  Mediterranean  up  the  Nile  to 
Boulak,  and  as  you  move  on  to  Cairo,  through  the 
still  surviving  masquerade  of  the  Orient,  the  cry  of 
the  melon-merchant  seems  the  significant  cry  of 
each  sad-eyed  Oriental,  "  Consoler  of  the  embar- 
rassed, O  Pips !'' 

The  centuiy  has  seen  the  failure  of  the  Eastern 
experiment,  headed  as  it  is  not  likely  to  be  headed 
again,  by  an  able  and  wise  leader.  Mehemet  AH 
nad  mastered  Egypt  and  Syria,  and  was  mounting 
the  steps  of  the  Sultan's  throne.  Then  he  would 
nave  marched  to  Bagdad,  and  sat  down  in  Haroun 
Alrashid's  seat,  to  draw  again  broader  and  more 
deeply  the  lines  of  the  old  Eastern  empire.  But 
the  West  would  not  suffer  it.  Even  had  it  done  so, 
the  world  of  Meliemet  AH  would  have  crumbled 


THE    CltEW.  45 

fo  chaos  again  when  he  died,  for  it  existed  only  by 
his  imperial  will,  and  not  by  the  perception  of  the 
people. 

At  this  moment  the  East  is  the  El  Dorado  of  Eu- 
ropean political  hope.  No  single  power  dares  to 
grasp  it,  but  at  last  England  and  Russia  will  meet 
there,  face  to  face,  and  the  lion  and  the  polar  bear 
will  shiver  the  desert  silence  with  the  roar  of  their 
struggle.  It  will  be  the  return  of  the  children  to 
claim  the  birthplace.  They  may  quarrel  among 
themselves,  but  whoever  wins>  will  introduce  the 
life  of  the  children  and  not  of  the  parent.  A  pos- 
session and  a  province  it  may  be,  but  no  more  an 
independent  empire.  Father  Ishmael  shall  be  a 
shekh  of  honor,  but  of  dominion  no  longer,  and  sit 
turbaned  in  the  chimney  corner,  while  his  hatted 
heirs  rule  the  house.  The  children  will  cluster 
around  him,  fascinated  with  his  beautiful  traditions, 
and  curiously  compare  their  little  black  shoes  with 
his  red  slippers. 

Here,  then,  we  throw  overboard  from  the  Ibis  all 
solemn  speculation,  reserving  only  for  ballast  this 
chapter  of  erudite  Eastern  reflection  and  prophecy. 
The  shade  of  the  Poet  Martineau  moves  awfully 
along  these  clay  terraces,  and  pauses  minatory  under 
the  palms,  declaring  that  "  He  who  derives  from 
his  travels  nothing  but  picturesque  and  amusing 


46  NILE    NOTES. 

impressions  *  *  *  uses  like  a  child  a  most  serious 
and  manlike  privilege." 

It  is  reproving,  but  some  can  paint,  and  some  can 
preach,  Poet  Harriet,  so  runs  the  world  away. 
That  group  of  palms  waving  feathery  in  the  moon- 
light over  the  gleaming  river  is  more  soul-solacing 
than  much  conclusive  speculation. 

^ 


VI. 

THE    IBIS    FLIES, 

AT  noon  the  wind  rose.  The  Ibis  shook  oat  her 
wings,  spread  them  and  stood  into  the  stream. 
Nero  was  already  off. 

Stretching  before  us  southward  were  endless 
groups  of  masts  and  sails.  Palms  fringed  the  west- 
ern shore,  and  on  the  east,  rose  the  handsome  sum- 
mer palaces  of  Pachas  and  rich  men.  They  were 
deep  retired  in  full  foliaged  groves  and  gardens,  or 
rose  white  and  shining  directly  over  the  water. 
The  verandahs  were  shaded  with  cool,  dark-green 
blinds,  and  spacious  steps  descended  stately  to  the 
water,  as  proudly  as  from  Venetian  palaces.  Grace- 
ful boats  lay  moored  to  the  marge,  the  lustrous  dark- 
ness of  acacias  shadowed  the  shore,  and  an  occasional 
sakia  or  water-wheel  began  the  monotonous  music 
of  the  river. 

Behind  us  from  the  city,  rose  the  alabaster  mina- 
rets of  the  citadel  mosque — snow  spires  in  the  deep 
blue — and  the  aerial  elegance  of  the  minor  minaiets 


48  N  I  L  E    X  O  T  E  S . 

mingling  with  palms,  that  seemed  to  grow  in  un- 
known hanging-gardens  of  delight,  were  already  a 
graceful  arabesque  upon  the  sky.  The  pyramids 
watched  us  as  we  went — staring  themselves  stonily 
into  memory  forever.  The  great  green  plain  between 
us  came  gently  to  the  water,  over  whose  calm  gleam 
skimmed  the  Ibis  with  almost  conscious  delight 
that  she  was  flying  to  the  South.  The  Howadji, 
meanwhile,  fascinated  with  the  fair  auspices  of  their 
voyage,  sat  cross-legged  upon  Persian  carpets  sip- 
ping mellow  Mocha,  and  smoking  the  cherry-sticked 
chibouque. 

As  life  without  love,  said  the  Cairene  poet  to  me 
as  I  ordered  his  nargileh  to  be  refilled  with  tum- 
bak  —  choice  Persian  tobacco — is  the  chibouque 
without  coffee.  And  as  I  sipped  that  Mocha,  and 
perceived  that  for  the  first  time  I  was  drinking 
coffee,  I  felt  that  all  Hadji  Hamed's  solemnity  and 
painful  Mecca  pilgrimages  were  not  purposeless  nor 
without  ambition.  Why  should  not  he  prepare 
coffee  for  the  choicest  coterie  of  houris  even  in  the 
Prophet's  celestial  pavilion?  For  a  smoother  sip 
is  not  offered  the  Prophet  by  his  fairest  favorite, 
than  his  namesake  prepared,  and  his  other  name- 
sake offered  to  us,  on  each  Nile  day. 

The  Mocha  is  so  fragrant  and  rich,  and  so  per- 
fectly prepared,  that  the  sweetness  of  s-igar  seems 


THE    IBIS    FLIES.  49 

at  length  quite  coarse  and  unnecessary.  Et  destroys 
the  most  delicate  delight  of  the  palate,  which  craves 
at  last  the  purest  flavor  of  the  berry,  and  tastes  all 
Arabia  Felix  therein.  A  glass  of  imperial  Tokay  in 
Hungary,  and  a  fingan  of  Mocha  in  the  East,  are  the 
most  poetic  and  inspiring  draughts.  Whether  the 
Greek  poets,  born  between  the  two,  did  not  fore- 
shadow the  fascination  of  each,  when  they  cele- 
brated nectar  and  ambrosia  as  divine  delights,  I 
leave  to  the  most  erudite  Teutonic  commentator. 
Sure  am  I  that  the  delight  of  well-prepared  Mocha 
transcends  the  sphere  of  sense,  and  rises  into  a 
spiritual  satisfaction  —  or  is  it  that  Mocha  is  the 
magic  that  spiritualizes  sense  ? 

Yet  it  must  be  sipped  from  the  fingan  poised  in 
the  delicate  zarf.  The  fingan  is  a  small  blue  and 
gold  cup,  or  of  any  color,  of  an  egg's  calibre,  borne 
upon  an  exquisitely  wrought  support  of  gold  or 
silver.  The  mouth  must  slide  from  the  cup's  brim 
to  the  amber  mouth-piece  of  the  chibouque,  draw- 
ing thence  azure  clouds  of  Latakia,  the  sweet  mild 
weed  of  Syria.  Then,  0  wildered  Western,  you 
taste  the  Orient,  and  awake  in  dreams. 

So  waned  the  afternoon,  as  we  glided  gently  be- 
fore a  failing  breeze,  between  the  green  levels  of  the 
Kile  valley.  The  river  was  lively  with  boats.  Dig- 
nified dahabieh  sweeping  along  like  Pachas  of  im- 
3 


50  NILE    NOTES. 

portance  and  of  endless  tails.  Crafty  little  cangie, 
smaller  barques,  creeping  on  like  Effendi  of  lesser 
rank.  The  far  rippling  reaches  were  white  with  the 
sharp  saucy  sails,  bending  over  and  over,  reproach- 
ing the  water  for  its  resistance,  and,  like  us,  pur- 
suing the  South.  The  craft  was  of  every  kind. 
Huge  lumbering  country  boats,  freighted  with  filth 
and  vermin,  covered  with  crouching  figures  in 

*  o  O 

blankets,  or  laden  with  grain  ;  or  there  were  boats 
curiously  crowded,  the  little  cabin  windows  over- 
flowing with  human  blackness  and  semi-naked  boys 
and  girls,  sitting  in  close  rows  upon  the  deck. 

These  are  first  class  frigates  of  the  Devil's 
navy.  They  are  slave  boats  floating  down  from 
Dongola  and  Sennaar.  The  wind  does  not  blow 
for  them.  They  alone  are  not  white  with  sails,  and 
running  merrily  over  the  \vater,  but  they  drift 
slowly,  slowly,  with  the  weary  beat  of  a  few  oars. 

The  little  slaves  stare  at  us  with  more  wonder 
than  we  look  at  them.  They  are  not  pensive  or 
silent.  The  smile,  and  chat,  and  point  at  the  How- 
idji  and  the  novelties  of  the  Nile,  very  contentedly. 
•Aot  one  kneels  and  inquires  if  he  is  not  a  man  and 
u  brother,  and  the  Venuses,  "  carved  in  ebony," 
aeem  fully  satisfied  with  their  crisp,  closely  curling 
^air,  smeared  with  castor  oil.  In  Egypt  and  the 
/Jast  generally,  slavery  does  not  appear  so  sadly  as 


THE    IBIS    PLIES.  51 

elsewhere.  The  contrasts  are  not  so  vivid.  It 
seems  only  an  accident  that  one  is  master  and  the 
other  slave.  A  reverse  of  relations  would  not  appear 
strange,  for  the  master  is  as  ignorant  and  brutal  as 
the  servant. 

Yet  a  group  of  disgusting  figures  lean  and  lounge 
upon  the  upper  deck,  or  cabin  roof.  Nature,  in 
iustice  to  herself,  has  discharged  humanity  from 
their  faces  —  only  the  human  form  remains  —  for 
there  is  nothing  so  revolting  as  a  slave-driver  with 
his  booty  bagged.  In  the  chase,  there  may  be  ex- 
citement and  danger,  but  the  chase  once  successful, 
they  sink  into  a  torpidity  of  badness.  But  this  is 
only  a  cloud  floating  athwart  the  setting  sun.  To 
our  new  Nile  eyes,  this  is  only  proof  that  there 
are  crocodiles  beyond — happily  not  so  repulsive,  for 
they  are  not  in  the  human  shape. 

The  slavers  passed  and  the  sun  set  over  the  gleam- 
ing river.  A  solitary  heron  stood  upon  a  sandy 
point.  In  a  broad  beautiful  bay  beyond,  the  thin 
lines  of  masts  were  drawn  dark  against  the  sky. 
Palms  and  the  dim  lines  of  Arabian  hills  dreamed 
in  the  tranquil  air,  a  few  boats  clung  to  the  western 
bank,  that  descended  in  easy  clay  terraces  to  the 
water,  their  sails  hanging  in  the  dying  wind.  Sud- 
denly we  were  among  them,  close  under  the  bank. 

The  moon  sloped  westward  behind  a  group  of 


52  NILE    NOTES. 

palms,  and  the  spell  was  upon  us.  We  had  drifted 
into  the  dream  world.  From  the  ghostly  highlands 
and  the  low  shore,  came  the  baying  of  dogs,  mel- 
lowed by  distance  and  the  moonlight,  into  the  weird 
measures  of  a  black  forest  hunting.  Drifted  away 
from  the  world,  yet,  like  Ferdinand,  moved  by 
voiceless  music  in  the  moonlight. 

"  Come  unto  these  yellow  sands. 
And  then  take  hands — 
Curtsied  when  you  have,  and  list, 
(The  wild  waves  whist.) 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there, 
And  sweet  sprites  the  burden  bear. 
Hark,  hark! 
,  The  watch-dog's  bark." 

Such  aerial  witchery  was  in  the  night,  for  our 
Shakespeare  was  a  Nile  necromancer  also.  Drifted 
beyond  the  world,  yet  not  beyond  the  poet.  Flutes, 
too,  were  blown  upon  the  shore,  and  horns  and  the 
chorus  of  a  crew  came  sadly  across  the  water  with 
the  faint  throb  of  the  tarabuka.  Under  those  warm 
southern  stars,  was  a  sense  of  solitude  and  isolation. 
Might  we  not  even  behold  the  southern  cross,  when 
the  clouds  of  Latakia  rolled  away?  Our  own  crew 
were  silent,  but  a  belated  boat  struggling  for  a 
berth  among  our  fleet,  disturbed  the  slumbers  of  a 
neighboring  crew.  One  sharp,  fierce  cackle  of  dis- 
pute suddenly  shattered  the  silence  like  a  tropical 


THE    IBIS    FLIES.  53 

whirlwind,  nor  was  it  stiller  by  the  blows  mutually 
bestowed.  Our  chat  of  Bagdad  knd  the  desert  was 
for  a  moment  suspended.  Nor  did  we  wonder  at  the 
struggle,  since  Mars  shone  so  redly  over.  But  it 
died  away  as  suddenly;  and  inexplicably  mournful 
as  the  Sphinx's  smile,  streamed  the  setting  moon- 
light over  the  world.  Not  a  ripple  of  Western 
feeling  readied  that  repose.  We  were  in  the  dream 
of  the  death  of  the  deadest  land. 


VII. 

THE   LANDSCAPE,    . 

THE  Nile  landscape  is  not  monotonous,  although 
of  one  general  character.  In  that  soft  air  the  lines 
change  constantly,  but  imperceptibly,  and  aro 
always  so  delicately  lined  and  drawn,  that  the  eye 
swims  satisfied  along  the  warm  tranquillity  of  the 
scenery. 

Egypt  is  the  valley  of  the  Nile.  At  iU  widest 
part  it  is,  perhaps,  six  or  seven  miles  broad,  and  is 
walled  upon  the  west  by  the  Libyan  mountains, 
and  upon  the  east  by  the  Arabian.  The  scenery  is 
simple  and  grand.  The  forms  of  the  landscape 
harmonize  with  the  forms  of  the  impression  of 
Egypt  in  the  mind.  Solemn,  and  still,  and  inexpli- 
cable, sits  that  antique  mystery  among  the  flowery 
fancies  and  broad  green  fertile  feelings  of  your  mind 
and  contemporary  life,  as  the  sphinx  sits  upon  the 
edge  of  the  graiu-green  plain.  No  scenery  is  grand- 
er in  ,-ts  impression,  for  none  is  so  symbolical.  The 
Is*,  J  rp.»"g  <r  nave  cjied  with  the  race  that  made 


THE    LANDSCAPE.  55 

it  famous — it  is  so  solemnly  still.  Day  after  day 
unrolls  to  the  eye  the  perpetual  panorama  of  fields 
wide-waving  with  the  tobacco,  and  glittering  with 
the  golden-blossomed  cotton,  among  which  half- 
naked  men  and  women  are  lazily  working.  Palm- 
groves  stand,  each  palm  a  poem,  brimming  your 
memory  with  beauty %  You  know  from  Sir  Gard- 
ner Wilkinson,  whose  volumes  are  here  your  best 
tutor,  that  you  are  passing  the  remains  of  ancient 
cities,  as  the  Ibis  loiters  languidly  before  the  rising 
and  falling  north  wind  or  is  wearily  drawn  along 
by  the  crew  filing  along  the  shore.  An  occasional 
irregular  reach  of  mounds  and  a  bit  of  crumbling 
wall  distract  imagination  as  much  with  the  future 
as  the  past,  straining  to  realize  the  time  when  New 
York  shall  be  an  irregular  reach  of  mounds,  or  a 
bit  of  crumbling  wall. 

Impossible?  Possibly.  But  are  we  so  loved  of 
time,  we  petted  youngest  child,  that  the  fate  of  his 
eldest  gorgeous  Asia,  and  Africa,  its  swart  myste- 
rious twin,  shall  only  frown  at  us  through  the  mand 
fly? 

The  austere  Arabian  mountains  leave  Cairo  with 
us,  and  stretch  in  sad  monotony  of  strength  along 
the  eastern  shore.  There  they  shine  sandily,  the 
mighty  advanced  guard  of  the  desert.  "  Here,"  say 
they,  and  plant  their  stern  feet  forever,  and  over 


56  NILE    NOTES. 

their  shoulders  sweep  and  sing  the  low  wild  winds 
from  mid  Arabia,  "sand-grains  outnumbering  all 
thy  dear  drops  of  water  are  behind  us,  to  maintain 
our  might  and  subdue  thee,  fond,  fair  river  P' 

But  it  glides  unheeded  at  their  base,  lithely 
swinging  its  long  unbroken  phalanx  of  sweet 
water — waving  gently  against  the  immovable  cliffs 
like  palm  branches  of  peace  against  a  foe's  serried 
front. 

Presently  the  Libyan  heights  appear,  and  the 
river  is  invested.  A  sense  of  fate  then  enchants  you, 
and  you  feel  that  the  two  powers  must  measure 
their  might  at  last,  and  go  forward  to  the  cataract 
with  the  feeling  of  one  who  shall  behold  terrible 
battles. 

Yet  the  day,  mindful  only  of  beauty,  lavishes  all 
its  light  upon  the  mighty  foes,  adorning  them  each 
impartially  for  its  own  delight.  Along  the  uniform 
Arabian  highland,  it  swims,  and  flashes,  and  fades, 
in  exquisite"  hues,  magically  making  it  the  sapphire 
wall  of  that  garden  of  imagination,  which  fertile 
Arabia  is ;  or,  in  the  full  gush  of  noon,  standing  it 
along  the  eastern  horizon  as  an  image  of  those 
boundless  deserts,  which  no  man  can  conceive, 
more  than  the  sea,  until  he  beholds  them. 

But  the  advancing  desert  consumes  cities  of  the 
river,  so  that  fair  fames  of  eldest  history  are  now 


THE    LANDSCAPE.  57 

mere  names.  Even  the  perplexed  river  sweeps 
away  its  own,  but  reveals  richer  reaches  of  green 
land  for  the  old  lost,  and  Arabia  and  Lybia  are 
foiled  forever.  Forever,  for  it  must  be  as  it  has 
been,  until  the  fertility  of  the  tropics  that  floats 
seaward  in  the  Nile,  making  the  land  of  Egypt  as  it 
goes,  is  exhausted  in  its  source. 

But  there  is  a  profonnder  charm  in  the  landscape 
a  beauty  that  grows  more  slowly  into  the  mind,  but 
is  as  perfect  and  permanent.  Gradually  the  How- 
adji  perceives  the  harmony  of  the  epical,  primitive, 
and  grand  character  of  the  landscape,  and  the  aus- 
tere simplicity  of  the  Egyptian  art.  Fresh  from  the 
galleries  of  Europe,  it  is  not  without  awe  that  he 
glides  far/behind  our  known  beginnings  of  civiliza- 
tion, and  standing  among  its  primeval  forms,  realizes 
the  relation  of  nature  and  art. 

There  is  no  record  of  anything  like  lyrical  poetry 
in  the  history  of  the  elder  Egyptians.  Their 
theology  was  the  sombre  substance  of  their  life. 
This  fact  of  history  the  Howadji  sees  before  he 
reads. 

Nature  is  only  epical  here.  She  has  no  little 
lyrics  of  green  groves,  and  blooming  woods,  and  se- 
questered lanes — no  lovely  pastoral  landscape.  But 
from  every  point  the  Egyptian  could  behold  the 

desert  heights,  and  the  river,  and  the  sky.     This 
3* 


58  NILE    NOTES 

grand  and  solemn  nature  has  imposed  upon  the  art 
of  the  land,  the  law  of  its  own  being  and  beauty. 
Out  of  the  landscape,  too,"springs  the  mystery  of 
Egyptian  character,  and  the  character  of  its  art. 
'For  silence  is  the  spirit  of  these  sand  mountains, 
and  of  this  sublime  sweep  of  luminous  sky — and 
silence  is  the  mother  of  mystery.  Primitive  man  so 
surrounded,  can  then  do  nothing-.but  what  is  simple 
and  grand.  The  pyramids  reproduce  the  impres- 
sion and  the  form  of  the  landscape  in  which  they 
stand.  The  pyramids  say,  in  the  nature  around 
them,  "Man,  his  mark."  . 

Later,  he  will  be  changed  by  a  thousand  influ- 
ences, but  can  never  escape  the  mystery  that  haunts 
his  home,  and  will  carve  the  Sphinx  and  the  strange 
mystical  Memnon.  The  sphinx  says  to  the  Howadji 
what  Egypt  said  to  the  Egyptian — and  from  the 
fascination  of  her  face  streams  all  the  yearning, 
profound  and  pathetic  power  that  is  the  soul  of  the 
Egyptian  day. 

So  also  from  the  moment  the  Arabian  highlands 
appeared,  we  had  in  their  lines  and  in  the  ever 
graceful  and  suggestive  palms,  the  grand  elements 
of  Egyptian  architecture.  Often,  in  a  luminously 
blue  day,  as  the  Howadji  sits  reading  or  musing  be- 
fore the  cabin,  the  stratified  sand  mountain  side, 
with  a  stately  arcade  of  palms  on  the  smooth  green 


THE    LANDSCAPE.  59 

below,  floats  upon  his  eye  through  the  serene  sky  as 
the  ideal  of  that  mighty  temple  which  Egyptian 
architecture  struggles  to  realize — and  he  feels  that 
he  beholds  the  seed  that  flowered  at  last  in  the 
Parthenon  and  all  Greek  architecture. 

The  beginnings  seem  to  have  been  the  sculpture 
of  the  hills  into  their  own  forms, — vast  regular 
chambers  cut  in  the  rock  or  earth,  vaulted  like  the 
sky  that  hung  over  the  hills,  and  like  that,  starred 
with  gold  in  a  blue  space. 

From  these  came  the  erection  of  separate  build- 
ings— but  always  of  the  same  grand  and  solemn 
character.  In  them  the  majesty  of  the  mountain  is 
repeated.  Man  cons  the  lesson  which  Nature  has 
taught  him. 

Exquisite  details  follow.  The  fine  flower-like 
Sorms  and  foliage  that  have  arrested  the  quick  sen- 
sitive eye  of  artistic  genius,  appear  presently  as 
ornaments  of  his  work.  Man  as  the  master,  and  the 
symbol  of  power,  stands  calm  with  folded  hands  in 
the  Osiride  columns.  Twisted  water  reeds  and 
palms,  whose  flowing  crests  are  natural  capitals, 
are  addded.  Then  the  lotus  and  acanthus  are 
wreathed  around  the  columns,  and  so  the  most 
delicate  detail  of  the  Egyptian  landscape  reap- 
peared in  its  art. 

But  Egyptian  art  never  loses  this  character  of 


60  NILE    NOTES. 

solemn  sublimity.  It  is  not  simply  infancy,  it  was 
the  law  of  its  life.  The  art  of  Egypt  never  offered 
to  emancipate  itself  from  this  character, — it  changed 
only  when  strangers  came. 

Greece  fulfilled  Egypt.  To  the  austere  grandeur 
of  simple  natural  forms,  Greek  art  succeeded,  as 
the  flower  to  foliage.  The  essential  strength  is 
retained,  but  an  aerial  grace  and  elegance,  an  ex- 
quisite elaboration  followed,  as  Eve  followed  Adam. 
For  Grecian  temples  have  a  fine  feminineness  of 
character  when  measured  with  the  Egyptian.  That 
hushed  harmony  of  grace — even  the  snow-sparkling 
marble,  and  the  general  impression,  have  this  dif- 
ference. 

Such  hints  are  simple  and  obvious — and  there  is 
no  fairer  or  more  frequent  flower  upon  these  charmed 
shores,  than  the  revelations  they  make  of  the  simple 
naturalness  of  primitive  art. 


VIII, 

TRACKING, 

OUR  angels  of  annunciation,  this  Christmas  eve, 
were  the  crews  of  the  boats  at  Benisoeth,  the  first 
important  town  upon  the  river.  They  blew  pipes, 
not  unlike  those  of  the  pifferari  in  Rome,  who  come 
from  the  AbruzzA  at  the  annunciation,  and  play 
before  the  Madonna  shrines  until  her  son  is  born. 
The  evening  was  not  too  cool  for  us  to  smoke  our 
chibouques  on  the  upper  deck.  There,  in  the  gray 
moonlight,  too,  Aboo  Seyd  was  turned  to  Mecca, 
and  genuflexing  and  ground-kissing  to  a  degree  that 
proved  his  hopeless  sinfulness. 

Courteous  reader,  that  Christmas  eve,  for  the  first 
time,  the  Howadji  went  to  bed  in  Levinge's  bag. 
It  is  a  net,  warranted  to  keep  mosquitoes  out,  and 
the  occupant  in,  and  much  recommended  by  those 
who  have  been  persuaded  to  buy,  and  those  who 
have  them  to  sell.  I  struggled  into  mine,  and  was 
comfortable.  But  the  Pacha  of  two  shirt  tails 
was  in  a  trying  situation.  For  this  perplexing 


62  NILE  NOTES 

problem  presented  itself — the  candle  being  extin 
guished,  to  get  in  ;  or  being  in,  to  blow  out  the 
candle.  "  'Peace  on  earth'  there  may  be,"  said  the 
Pacha,  holding  with  one  hand  the  candlestick,  and 
with  the  other  the  chimney  of  the  bag,  "  but  there 
is  none  upon  the  water;1'  and  he  stood  irresolute, 
Until,  placing  the  candlestick  upon  the  floor,  and 
struggling  into  the  bag,  as  into  an  unwilling  shirt, 
the  hand  was  protruded — seized  the  candlestick, 
and  genius  had  cut  the  gordian  knot  of  doubt. 

A  calm  Christmas  dawned.  It  was  a  day  to  dream 
of  the  rose-radiance  that  trembles  over  the  Mountains 
of  the  Moon :  a  day  to  read  Werne's  White  Nile 
Journal,  with  its  hourly  record  of  tropical  life 
among  the  simple  races  of  the  equator,  and  enchant- 
ing stories  of  acres  of  lotus  bloom  in  Ethiopia.  It 
was  not  difficult  to  fancy  that  we  were  following 
him,  as  we  slid  away  from  the  shore  and  saw  the 
half-naked  people,  the  mud  huts,  and  every  sign  of 
\  »  race  forever  young. 

We  sprang  ashore  for  a  ramble,  and  the  Pacha 
took  his  gun  for  a  little  bird-murder.  Climbing  the 
bank  from  the  water,  we  emerged  upon  the  level 
plain,  covered  with  an  endless  mesh  qf  flowering 
lupin.  The  palm-grove  beckoned  friendly  with 
its  pleasant  branches,  through  which  the  breath  of 
the  warm  morning  was  whispering  sweet  secrets 


TRACKING.  63 

I  heard  them.  Fine  Ear  had  not  delicater  senses 
than  the  Howadji  may  have  in  Egypt.  I  knew  that 
the  culm  Christmas  morning  was  toying  with  the 
subtle-winged  Summer,  under  those  palms — the 
Summer  that  had  fled  before  me  from  Switzerland 
over  the  Italian  vintage.  Above  my  head  was  the 
dreamy  murmurousness  of  summer  insects  swarming 
in  the  warm  air.  The  grain  was  green,  and  the 
weeds  were  flowering  at  my  feet.  The  repose  of 
August  weather  brooded  in  the  radiant  sky.  Whoso 
would  follow  the  Summer,  will  find  her  lingering 
and  loitering  under  the  palm-groves  of  the  Nile, 
when  she  is  only  a  remembrance  and  a  hope  upon 
the  vineyards  of  the  Rhine,  and  the  gardens  of  the 
Hudson. 

Aboo  Seyd  followed  us,  and  we  suddenly  en- 
countered a  brace  of  unknown  Howadji.  They 
proved  to  be  Frenchmen,  and  had  each  a  gun 
Why  is  a  Frenchman  so  unsphered,  out  of  Paris  "? 
They  inquired  for  their  boat  with  a  tricolor,  which 
we  had  not  seen,  and  told  us  that  there  were  wild 
boars  in  the  palm-groves.  Then  they  stalked  away 
among  the  coarse,  high,  hilfeh  grass,  with  both  gun- 
barrels  cocked.  Presently  the  charge  of  one  of 
them  came  rustling  around  our  legs,  through  the 
grass.  We  hailed,  and  informed  the  hunters  that 
we  were  pervious  to  shot.  They  protested  and 


64  NILE    NOTES. 

demanded  many  thousand  pardons,  then  discovered 
their  boat  and  embarked  to  breakfast,  to  recount 
over  their  Bordeaux  the  morning  hunt  of  tanglier* 
and  Anglais,  for  one  of  which,  they  probably  mis- 
took us. 

We  returned  too,  and  ate  pomegranates,  but 
went  ashore  again,  for  this  was  a  tracking  day — a 
day  when  there  is  no  wind,  but  the  boat  is  drawn 
a  few  miles  by  the  crew.  There  was  a  village  near 
us  under  the  palms,  and  the  village  smoke,  aerialized 
into  delicate  blue  haze,  made  with  the  sunset  a 
glowing  atmosphere  of  gold  and  blue,  in  which  a 
distant  palm-grove  stood  like  a-  dream  of  faery. 
Querulous  dogs  were  barking  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
mud  city ;  for  it  deserved  that  name — a  chaos  of  mud 
huts  and  inclosures,  built  apparently  at  random, 
and  full  of  an  incredible  squalor,  too  animal  to  be 
sad.  The  agile  Gauls  were  plunging  across  the 
plain,  scrambling  up  little  hillocks  with  their  cocked 
muskets,  causing  us  rueful  reflections  upon  the 
frailty  of  human  legs.  Pop-pop,  went  the  despe- 
radoes of  hunters  at  the  tame  pigeons  on  the  palms. 
We  wended  through  the  fields  of  sprouting  beans. 
A  few  women  and  children  lingered  still,  others 
were  driving  donkeys  and  buffaloes  homeward — for 
these  hard  clay  hovels  were  homes  too. 

I  foresee  that  the   Egyptian  sunsets  will  shine 


TRACKING.  65 

much  too  much,  along  these  pages.  But  they  are 
so  beautiful,  and  every  sunset  is  so  new,  that  the 
Howadji  must  claim  the  law  of  lovers,  and  per- 
petually praise  the  old  beauty  forever  young. 

This  evening  the  sun  swept  suddenly  into  the 
west,  drawing  the  mists  in  a  whirlpool  after  him. 
The  vortex  of  luminous  vapor  gradually  diffused 
itself  over  the  whole  sky,  and  the  Ibis  floated  in 
a  mist  of  gold,  its  slim  yards  and  masts  sculp- 
tured like  Claude's  vessels  in  his  sunsets.  It  paled 
then,  gradually,  and  a  golden  gloom  began  the 
night. 

We  emerged  from  the  palms,  on  whose  bending 
boughs  doves  sat  and  swung,  and  saw  the  gloom 
gradually  graying  over  the  genial  Nile  valley.  As 
we  neared  the  Ibis  we  met  our  third  .Mohammed,  a 
smooth  Nubian  of  the  crew,  and  Seyd,  the  one-eyed 
first-officer,  whom  the  Commander  had  sent  to 
search  for  us.  They  carried  staves,  like  beadles  or 
like  Roman  consuls ;  for  they  were  to  see  that  we 
"  took  no  detriment" — "  for  the  dogs  and  the  impu- 
dent people,"  said  Golden-sleeve,  with  bodefu1 
head-shakings. 

Thou  timorous  Commander  !  Hath  not  the  Pacha 
'a  one-barreled  gun  and  tales  innumerable  ?  He  said 
that  Nero  had  passed  the  mud  city  only  the  night 
b.efore.  But  did  the  moonlight  show  him  what  we 


66  NILE    NOTES. 

saw — two  Ibis  perched,  snowy  white,  upon  the  back 
of  a  buffalo  ? 

Then,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  the  Howadji 
sat  quietly  smoking  in  the  open  air  upon  Christmas 
evening:  but  hunted  no  slipper,  nor  was  misletoe 
hung  in  the  cabin. 


IX. 

FLYING, 

THE  wind  rose  cheerly,  the  tricolor  fluttered  aivl 
dropped  behind,  and  leaving  all  rivals,  the  eager 
Ibis  ran  wing  and  wing  before  the  breeze. 

The  bold  mountains  did  not  cease  to  bully. 
Sometimes  they  receded  a  little,  leaving  spaces  of 
level  sand,  as  if  the  impatient  desert  behind  had, 
in  some  spots,  pressed  over  and  beyond  them  ;  but 
they  drew  out  again  quite  to  the  stream,  and  rose 
sheerly  in  steep,  caverned  cliffs  from  the  water, 
housing  wild  fowl  innumerable,  that  shrieked  and 
cried  like  birds  of  prey  before  the  mighty  legions. 

Over  these  mountain  shoulders,  the  winds  not 
only  sing,  but,  bloated  into  storms  and  sudden  tem- 
pests, they  spring  upon  the  leaning  lateen  sails  that 
fly  with  eagerly-pointing  yards  beneath,  as  if  to  re- 
venge themselves  upon  the  river,  in  the  destruction 
of  what  it  bears.  Under  the  Aboofeyda  and  the 
Gebel  Shekh  Hereedee,  and  the  Gebel  Tookh,  and 
wherever  else  the  mountains  pile  their  frowning 


6S  NILE    NOTES. 

fronts  in  precipices  along  the  shore,  are  the  dangers 
of  Nile  navigation. 

A  tranquil  twilight  breath  wafted  us  beneath  the 
first,  and  another  sunset  breeze  ran  us  dashingly 
toward  the  Shekh  Hereedee.  But  just  when  the 
evening  was  darkest,  a  sudden  gust  sprang  upon  us 
from  the  mountain.  It  shook  the  fleet,  bold  Ibis 
into  trembling,  but  she  succeeded  in  furling  her 
larger  wing,  and,  struggling  through,  she  fled  fast 
and  forward  in  the  dark,  until,  under  Orion  in  the 
zenith  and  his  silent  society,  she  drew  calmly  to 
the  shore,  and  dreamed  all  night  of  the  serpent  of 
Shekh  Hereedee,  who  cured  all  woes  but  those  of 
his  own  making. 

Neither  was  the  (rebel  Tookh  our  friend.  The 
mountainous  regions  are  always  gusty,  and  the  Ibis 
had  been  squall-struck  several  times,  but  ran  at 
last  free  and  fair  before  the  wind,  between  shores 
serene,  on  which  we  could  hear  the  call  of  women 
to  each  other,  and,  not  seeing  their  faces,  could 
fancy  their  beauty  at  will,  and  their  worthiness  to 
be  nymphs  of  the  Nile. 

We  were  still  slipping  swiftly  along  under  the 
foresail,  and  the  minarets  of  Girgeh  glittered  on  the 
southern  horizon. 

"Why  not  the  mainsail,"  cried  the  Pacha,  "in 
this  lulling  wind  ?' 


FLYING.  G9 

The  Ibis  shook  out  her  great  wing,  and  stood 
across,  bending  with  the  river,  straight  toward  the 
Gebel  Tookh.  She  plowed  the  water  into  flashing 
foam-furrows  as  we  swept  on.  The  very  landscape 
was  sparkling  and  spirited  for  that  exciting  speed. 
The  half  human  figures  upon  the  shore  paused  to 
watch  us  as  we  passed.  But  in  the  dark  gulf  under 
the  mountain,  where,  on  the  steep  strip  of  shore, 
the  Nile  had  flung  down  to  its  foe  a  gauntlet  of 
green,  the  gale  that  lives  in  Arab  tradition  along 
those  heights,  like  an  awful  Afreet,  plunged  sud- 
denly upon  us,  and  for  a  few  moments  the  proud 
Ibis  strained  and  quivered  in  its  grasp. 

The  dark  waves  dashed  foam-tipped  against  her 
side,  and  seethed  with  the  swell  of  a  small  sea,  as 
the  Ibis  spurned  them  and  flew  on.  Behind,  one 
solitary  Cangie  was  struggling  with  a  loosely  flap- 
ping sail,  through  a  narrow  channel,  and  before  us 
was  the  point,  round  which,  once  made,  we  should 
flj  before  the  wind.  It  was  clear  that  we  had  too 
much  canvass  for  the  pass.  The  crew  squatted  im- 
becile, wrapped  in  their  blankets,  and  stared  in 
stupid  amazement  at  the  cliff  and  the  river.  The 
ancient  mariner,  half  crouching  over  the  tiller,  and 
showing  his  two  surviving  teeth  to  the  gale,  fast- 
ened his  eye  upon  the  boat  and  the  river,  while  the 
wild  wind  danced  about  his  drapery,  fluttering  all 


70  KILE    NOTES. 

his  rags,  and  howling  with  delight  as  it  forced  him 
to  strain  at  his  tiller,  or  with  rage  as  it  feared  his 
mastery. 

I  did  not  observe  that  the  Muslim  were  any  more 
fatalists  than  the  merest  Christians.  Mere  Chris- 
tians would  have  helped  themselves  a  little,  doubt- 
less, and  so  would  the  Muslim,  if  they  had  known 
how  to  do  it.  Their  resignation  was  not  religion, 
but  stupidity.  The  golden-sleeved  Commander  was 
evidently  averse  to  a  sloping  deck,  at  least  to  slopes 
of  so  aggravated  an  angle ;  and  the  crew  were 
clearly  wondering  how  infidels  could  rate  their 
lives  so  justly  as  the  Howadji  did,  in  suggesting 
the  mainsail  at  the  very  feet  of  the  inexorable  Gebel 
Tookh. 

Twice  the  squall  struck  the  Ibis,  and  twice,  paus- 
ing and  shivering  a  moment,  she  stretched  her 
wings  again,  and  fled  foamingly  mad  before  it. 
Then  she  rounded  the  point,  and,  passing  a  country 
boat  fully  laden  with  men  and  produce,  lying  to 
under  a  bank,  drove  on  to  Girgeh.  The  baffled 
gale  retreated  to  its  mountain  cavern  to  lie  in  awful 
ambush  for  Nero,  and  the  blue  pennant,  whom  we 
bad  passed  already — yes,  O  Osiris!  possibly  to  hunt 
the  hunting  Messieurs,  nor  to  let  them  off  for  their 
legs  alone.  Then  the  Ibis  furled  neatly  and  hand- 
somely her  wild  wings  before  the  minarets  of  Girgeh. 


X. 

VERDE  GIOVANE  AND  FELLOW-MARINERS, 

As  we  drift  along,  and  the  day  paints  its  placid 
picture  upon  the  eye,  each  sail  shining  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  fading  beyond  the  palm-groved  points, 
recalls  our  fellow-mariners.  You  may  embark  on 
the  same  day  that  others  embark  from  Boulak,  and 
be  two  months  upon  the  Nile,  yet  never  meet,  or 
only  so  rarely  as  to  make  parting  sorrow.  Yet  as 
the  charm  of  new  impressions  and  thoughts  is 
doubled  by  reflection  in  a  friend's  mind,  you  scan 
very  curiously,  upon  your  arrival  in  Cairo,  the 
groups  who  are  to  form  the  society  of  the  River. 
Usually,  however,  you  will  come  with  one  friend, 
nor  care  much  for  many  others.  Once  in  Egypt 
you  are  so  far  removed  from  things  familiar,  that 
you  wish  to  unsphere  yourself  entirely,  to  lose  all 
trace  of  your  own  nationality,  and  to  separate  your- 
self from  the  past.  In  those  dim,  beautiful  bazaars 
of  Cairo,  where  all  the  wares  of  the  most  inventive 
imagination  should  be,  you  dream  vaguely  that 


72  NILE    NOTES. 

some  austere  astrologer  sitting  cross-legged  before 
his  odorous  crucibles,  and  breathing  contemplative 
smoke,  must  needs  be  Icarian  progeny,  and  can 
whisper  the  secret  of  those  wings  of  the  morning 
which  shall  bear  you  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the 
earth. 

All  things  seem  possible  when  you  actually  see 
the  pyramids  and  palms.  Persia  is  then  very  prob- 
able,— and  you  are  willing  to  propose  the  Ganges 
as  your  next  river  voyage.  Yet  the  first  Cairo  eve, 
as  the  Howadji  sat  in  Shepherd's  dining-room,  that 
long,  large  hall  opening  upon  the  balcony,  of  whose 
stability  some  are  suspicious,  which  overhangs  the 
Uzbeekeeyah,  massively  foliaged  with  December- 
blooming  acacias, — there  as  they  sat  tranquilly 
smoking  chibouques,  detecting  an  unwonted  tenden- 
cy in  the  legs  to  curl,  and  cross  themsalves  upon 
the  cushions,  and  inwardly  congratulating  them- 
selves that  at  length  they  were  oriental,  a  brisk 
little  English  officer  suddenly  spoke,  and  said — 
"  When  I  was  in  the  East."  Heavens  !  the  How 
adji  legs  uncurled  immediately,  and  the  words 
shoved  them  deep  into  the  West — "  When  I  was  in 
the  East !" 

"And  where  were  you  then,  Major  Pendennis?" 
For  it  was  plain  to  see  that  it  was  Major  Penden- 
nis — wearied  of  Pall  Mall — and  recruiting  from  the 


VERDE   GIOVANE.  73 

fatigues  of  Indian  service  in  a  little  western  recrea- 
tion in  Syria  and  Egypt. 

"  Ah  !  my  dear  sir,  it  was  when  I  was  in  Persia," 
— and  the  worthy  Major  waxed  warm  in  his  tales 
of  Persian  life,  especially  of  that  horsemanship 
whereof  Apollo  seems  to  have  been  the  God — so 
graceful,  so  poetic,  so  perfect,  is  its  character.  But 
no  listener  listened  so  lovingly  arid  long  as  Verde 
Giovane.  I  thought  him  a  very  young  grandson  of 
my  elderly  friend  Bull.  Verde  was  joyous  and  gay. 
He  had  already  been  to  the  Pyramids,  and  had  slept 
in  a  tomb,  and  had  his  pockets  picked  as  he  wan 
dered  through  their  disagreeable  darkness.  He  had 
come  freshly  and  fast  from  England  to  see  the 
world,  omitting  Paris  and  Western  Europe  on  his 
way, — :as  he  embarked  at  Southampton  for  Alexan- 
dria. Being  in  Cairo,  he  felt  himself  a  traveller. 
Sternhold  and  Hopkins  were  his  laureates ;  for,  per- 
petually, on  all  kinds  of  wings  of  mighty  winds,  he 
came  flying  all  abroad.  He  lost  a  great  deal  of 
money  at  billiards  to  "jolly"  fellows  whom  he  af- 
terward regaled  with  cold  punch  and  choice  cigars. 
He  wrangled  wildly  with  a  dragoman  of  very  im- 
perfect English  powers,  and  packed  his  tea  for  the 
voyage  in  brown  paper  parcels.  He  was  perpetu- 
ally on  the  point  of  leaving.  At  breakfast,  he 

would  take  a  loud  leave  of  the  "  jolly"  fellows,  arid 
4 


74  NILE    NOTES. 

if  there  were  ladies  in  the  room,  he  slung  his  gun 
in  a  very  abandoned  manner  over  his  shoulder,  and 
while  he  adjusted  his  shot-pouch  with  careless  he- 
roism, as  if  the  enemy  were  in  ambush  on  the 
stairs, — as  who  should  say,  "  I'll  do  their  business 
easily  enough,"  he  would  remark  with  a  meaning 
smile,  that  he  should  stop  a  day  or  two  at  Esne, 
probably,  and  then  go  off  humming  a  song  from  the 
Favorita,— or  an  air  whose  words  were  well  known 
to  the  jolly  fellows,  but  would  scarcely  bear  female 
criticism. 

After  this  departure,  he  had  a  pleasant  way  of 
reappearing  at  the  dinner-table,  for  the  pale  ale  was 
not  yet  aboard,  or  the  cook  was  ill,  or  there  had 
been  another  explosion  with  the  dragoman.  Verde 
Giovane  found  the  Cairene  evenings  "  slow."  It 
was  astonishing  how  much  execution  he  accomplish- 
ed with  those  words  of  very  moderate  calibre, 
"slow,"  "jolly,"  and  "stunning."  The  universe 
arranged  itself  in  Verde  Giovane's  mind  under  those 
three  heads.  Presently  it  was  easy  to  predicate  his 
criticisms  in  any  department.  He  had  lofty  views 
of  travel.  Verde  Giovane  had  come  forth  to  see  the 
world,  and  vainly  might  the  world  seek  to  be  un- 
seen. He  wished  to  push  on  to  Sennaar  and  Ethio- 
pia. It  was  very  slow  to  go  only  to  the  cataracts. 
Ordinary  travel,  and  places  already  beheld  of  men, 


VEEDE  GIOVANE.  75 

were  not  for  Verde.  But  if  there  were  any  Chinese 
wail  tc  be  scaled,  or  the  English  standard  were  to 
be  planted  upon  any  vague  and  awful  Himalayan 
height,  or  a  new  oasis  were  to.be  revealed  in  the 
desert  of  Sahara,  here  was  the  heaven-appointed 
Verde  Giovane,  only  awaiting  his  pale  ale,  and  de- 
termined to  dally  a  little  at  Esne.  After  subduing 
the  East  by  travel,  he  proposed  to  enter  the  Cauca- 
sian Mountains,  and  serve  as  a  Russian  officer.  These 
things  were  pleasant  to  hear,  as  to  behold  at  Christ- 
mas those  terrible  beheadings  of  giants  by  Tom 
Thumb;  for  you  enjoyed  a  sweet  sense  of  security 
and  a  consciousness  that  no  harm  was  done.  They 
were  wild  Arabian  romances,  attributable  to  the  in- 
spiration of  the  climate  in  the  city  he  found  so  slow. 
The  Cairenes  were  listening  elsewhere  to  their 
poets,  Verde  Giovane  was  ours ;  and  we  knew  very 
well  that  he  would  go  quietly  up  to  the  first  cataract, 
and  then  returning  to  Alexandria,  would  steam  to 
Jaffa,  and  thence  donkey  placidly  to  Jerusalem, 
moaning  in  his  sleep  of  Cheapside  and  St.  Paul's. 

His  chum,  Gunning,  was  a  brisk  little  barrister, 
dried  up  in  the  Temple  like  a  small  tart  sapson. 
In  the  course  of  acquaintance  with  him  you  stumbled 
surprised  upon  the  remains  of  geniality  and  gentle 
culture,  as  you  would  upon  Greek  relics  in  Green- 
land. He  was  a  victim  of  the  Circe,  Law,  but  not 


76  NILE    NOTES. 

entirely  unhumanized.  Like  the  young  king,  he 
was  half  marble,  but  not  all  stony.  Gunning's 
laugh  was  very  ludicrous.  It  had  no  fun  in  it — no 
more  sweetness  than  a  crow's  caw,  and  it  sprang 
upon  you  suddenly  and  startling,  like  the  breaking 
down  of  a  cart  oveHoaded  with  stones.  He  was 
very  ugly  and  moody,  and  walked  apart  muttering 
to  himself,  and  nervously  grinning  ghastly  grins,  so 
that  Gunning  was  suspected  of  insanity — a  sus- 
picion that  became  certainty  when  he  fringed  his 
mouth  with  stiff  black  bristles,  and  went  up  the 
Nile  with  Verde  Giovane. 

For  the  little  Verde  did  say  a  final  farewell  at 
last,  and  left  the  dining-room  gaily  and  gallantly, 
as  a  stage  bandit  disappears  down  pasteboard  rocks 
to  desperate  encounters  with  mugs  of  beer  in  the 
green-room. 


XI. 

VERDE   PIU   GIOVANE. 

I  KNEW  at  Cairo,  too,  another  youth,  whom  I  was 
sure  was  a  Verde.  I  thought  him  brother  of  the 
good  Verde  Giovane,  but  lie  denied  all  relationship, 
although  I  am  convinced  he  was  at  least  first  cousin. 
Possibly  you  know  not  the  modesty  of  the  Indian 
Englishman. 

It  was  in  the  same  dining-room,  and  the  youth 
was  expatiating  to  Major  Pendennis  upon  his  braving 
the  desert  dangers  from  Suez,  of  his  exploits  of 
heroism  and  endurance  upon  the  Nile  voyage,  which 
he  had  already  made,  and  was  again  projecting,  and 
generally  of  things  innumerable,  and  to  lesser  men 
insuperable,  undergone  or  overborne. 

"  And  up  the  Nile,  too,"  said  he,  "  I  carried  no 
bed,  and  slept  upon  the  bench  ;  over  the  desert  I  go 
with  one  camel,  and  she  carries  every  thing.  Why 
will  men  travel  with  such  retinues,  caring  for  their 
abominable  comfort;"  and  the  young  gentleman 
ordered  his  nargileh. 


78  NILE    NOTES- 

"But,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Major  Pendennis,  "why 
rough  it  here  upon  the  Nile  ?  It  is  harder  to  do 
that  than  to  go  comfortably.  You  might  as  well 
rough  it  through  England.  The  bottle,  if  you. 
please." 

"  Why,  Major,"  returned  the  youth,  smiling  in 
his  turn,  and"  crowding  his  body  into  his  chair,  so 
that  the  back  of  his  head  rested  upon  the  chair- 
back,  "  it  is  well  enough  for  some  of  you ;  but  we 
poor  East  India  subalterns  ! — Besides,  you  know, 
Major,  discipline — not  only  military,  which  is  in  our 
way,  but  moral.  For  what  says  the  American  poet, 
who,  I  doubt  not,  lives  ascetically  in  some  retired 
cave : 

'  Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 
To  suffer  and  be  strong.'  " 

So  saying,  the  young  man  clapped  his  hands,  and 
a  Hindoo  boy  in  his  native  costume  appeared.  The 
youth  addressed  some  words  to  him  in  an  unknown 
tongue,  which  produced  no  effect  until  he  pointed 
to  his  nargileh,  and  rising  at  the  same  time,  the 
slave  removed  the  nargileh  a  few  steps  toward  his 
master,  who  curled  up  his  feet  and  prepared  to  suf- 
fer and  be  strong  in  the  sofa  corner. 

By  this  time  Galignani  and  the  French  news 
were  entirely  uninteresting  to  me.  Who  this  was  '? 
• — this  personage  who  modestly  styled  himself  "we 


VERDEPIUGIOVANE.  79 

poor  East  India  subalterns,"  and  summoned  Hin- 
doo servants  to  turn  round  his  nargileh,  and  hob- 
nobbed with  Major  Pendennises,  and  who  suffered 
and  was  strong  in  such  pleasant  ways. 

Major  Pendennis  shoving  his  chair  a  little  back, 
said,  "  When  I  was  in  the  East,"  and  compared  ex- 
perience of  travel  with  his  young  friend. 

The  Major,  truly  a  gallant  gentleman,  related  the 
Roman  hardihood  of  those  British  officers  who  ad- 
vance into  the  heart  of  Hindostan,  and  penetrate  to 
Persia,  reclining  upon  cushioned  camels,  resting 
upon  piles  of  Persian  carpets  on  elevated  frame- 
works under  silken  tents,  surrounded  by  a  shining 
society  of  servants  and  retinue,  so  that,  to  every 
effective  officer,  every  roaring  and  rampant  British 
lion  of  this  calibre,  go  eight  or  ten  attendant  su- 
pernumeraries, who  wait  upon  his  nargileh,  coffee, 
sherbet,  and  pale  ale,  and  care  generally  for  his  suf- 
fering and  strength. 

In  the  dim  dining-room,  I  listened  wonderingly 
to  these  wild  tales  of  military  hardship  sung  by  a 
soldier-poet.  I  fancied,  as  the  period  swelled,  that 
I  heard  the  hoary  historian  reciting  the  sparkling 
romance  of  Xerxes'  marches  and  the  shining  advance 
of  Persian  arms.  But  no  sooner  had  the  Major 
ceased  his  story,  than  "  we  poor  East  India  subal- 
terns" "  took  up  the  wondrous  tale." 


80  NILE    NOTES. 

The  Howadji  weltered  then  in  a  whirlpool  of 
brilliant  confusion.  Names  of  fair  fame  bubbled 
up  from  the  level  tone  of  his  speech,  like  sudden 
sun-seeking  fountains  from  bloom-matted  plains.  I 
heard  Bagdad,  Damascus,  Sinai,  and  farther  and 
"airer,  the  Arabian  Gulf,  pearls,  and  Circassians.  I 
knew  that  he  was  telling  of  where  he  had  been,  or 
might  have  been,  or  wished  to  have  been.  The 
rich  romance  reeled  on.  The  fragrant  smoke  curled 
in  heavier  clouds.  I  felt  that  my  experience  was 
like  a  babe  unborn  beside  that  of  this  mighty  man, 
who  knew  several  things,  and  had  brushed  the 
bloom  from  life  with  the  idle  sweep  of  his  wings, 
and  now  tossed  us  the  dull  rind  for  our  admiring. 

The  silence  of  the  room  was  only  more  rapt  by 
his  voice  meshing  about  our  attention  its  folds  of 
fascination,  when  the  good  Verde  Giovane,  who  sat 
next  to  me,  and  who,  I  fear,  was  not  lending  that 
length  of  admiring  ears,  of  which  he  was  certainly 
capable,  suddenly  asked  the  subaltern,  "  Pray,  is  the 
tobacco  you  are  smoking — " 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,  this  is  not  tobacco.  I  am  smok- 
ing coffee  leaves." 

Unhappy  Giovane !  The  subaltern  looked  upon 
him  with  eyes  that  said,  "  Unworthy  fellow-coun- 
tryman, do  you  imagine  that  men  live  a  brace  of 
years  in  the  H.  E.  I.  C.'s  service  and  then  smoke 


VERDiS    PIU    GIOVANE.  81 

tobacco — talk  of  Arabia  and  pearls,  and  yet  smoke 
tobacco — of  Circassians  and  Lahore,  and  still  smoke 
tobacco?" 

In  the  amazement  of  that  interruption  the  last 
whiff'  of  the  smoke  of  coffee-leaves  curled  scornfully 
away  over  Giovane's  diminished  head.  Hands  were 
clapped  again,  servants  appeared  and  replaced  with 
a  chibouque  the  Persian  nargileh  of  the  disciplina- 
rian. 

The  mere  American  Howadji  was  fascinated  with 
the  extent  and  variety  of  knowledge  acquired  by 
the  "  poor  subalterns."  "  Never,"  mused  he,  in  a 
certain  querulousness  of  spirit,  "  never,  until  we, 
too,  have  an  H.  E.  I.  C.,  can  we  hope  to  rear  such 
youths  as  this.  Happy  country,  imperial  England, 
that  at  home  fosters  young  men  like  my  excellent 
Verde  Giovane,  and  in  distant  India,  a  race  of 
Verdes,  piu  Giovane. 

The  "poor  subaltern"  gradually  melted,  and  at 
length  even  smiled  benignly  upon  Giovane,  as  he 
suddenly  clapped  his  hands  again  and  summoned 
the  Hindoo.  "  Mr.  Verde,  do  you  smoke  paper  ?" 

"No — why — yes,  I  should  be  very  happy,"  re- 
plied the  appalled  Giovane,  who  told  me  later,  that 
he  considered  the  subaltern  a  right  "jolly"  fellow, 
with  a  "  stunning"  way  with  him,  in  which  latter 

half  of  praise  I  was  entirely  of  Verde's  opinion. 

4* 


82  NILE    NOTES. 

Turning  to  his  servant,  the  youth  said  something 
probably  in  refined  Hindostanee,  which  the  boy, 
speaking  only  a  patois,  of  course  could  not  under- 
stand. But  "  make  a  cigarette,"  in  pure  English, 
resembled  his  patois  to  that  degree  that  he  under- 
tood  at  once,  and  rolled  the  cigarette,  which  the 
youth  handed  to  Giovane  with  an  air  of  majestic 
forgiveness,  and  then  taking  a  candle,  he  left  the 
room,  wishing  us  good  night,  as  who  should  say, 
"My  Lords,  farewell;"  leaving  the  party  still  as 
champagne  when  the  gas  has  bubbled  briskly  away. 

And  yet,  with  that  unmistakable  family  likeness, 
he  could  deny  that  he  was  of  the  great  Verde  family  ! 

The  mental  shock  of  subsiding  into  my  own 
thoughts,  at  once,  after  that  evening  would  have 
been  too  much.  I  therefore  sought  to  let  myself 
down  by  delicate  degrees,  and,  thinking  that  I  had 
seized  a  volume  of  Hafiz,  I  stepped  upon  the  bal- 
cony to  read,  by  moonlight,  songs  of  love  and  wine. 
But  I  found  that  I  had  a  natural  history  by  an  un- 
known Arabian  author.  My  finger  was  on  this  pas- 
sage— 

"  This  is  a  species  of  the  John  Bull,  which  now, 
for  the  first  time,  falls  under  the  author's  observa- 
tion. Great  is  Allah  and  Mohammed  his  prophet  for 
these  new  revelations.  I  am  told,"  he  continues, 
'  that  it  is  not  uncommon  in  the  mother  country. 


VERDE    PIU    GIOVANE.  83 

It  is  there  gregarious  in  its  habits,  and  found  in 
flocks  in  the  thickets  of  Regent  and  Oxford  streets, 
in  the  paddock  of  Pall  Mall,  and  usually  in  any 
large  herd  of  Bulls. 

"  Its  horns  are  enormous  and  threatening,  but 
very  flexible  and  harmless.  Its  ears  and  tail  are 
of  uncommon  length,  but  adroitly  concealed,  and  it 
comes  to  luxuriant  perfection  in  the  southern  parts 
of  India,  and,  in  fact,  wherever  the  old  herds  obtain 
a  footing. 

"  It  is  very  frisky  and  amusing,  and  delights  to 
run  at  the  spectator  with  its  great  horns  branching. 
If  he  be  panic-stricken  and  fly,  the  Bull  pursues 
him  roaring  like  a  mighty  lion,  and  with  such  ener- 
gy, that  the  more  ingenious  naturalists  suppose, 
that  for  the  moment,  the  animal  really  fancies  his 
horns  to  be  hard,  and  pointed,  and  serviceable.  If, 
however,  the  spectator  turns,  and  boldly  takes  the 
animal  by  the  horns,  they  will  bend  quite  down — in 
fact,  with  a  little  squeezing,  will  entirely  disappear, 
and  the  meek-faced  Bull  will  roar  you  as  gently 
as  any  sucking  dove." 

Nor  wonder  at  such  figures  in  our  Nile  picture,  for 
here  are  contrasts  more  profound,  lights  lighter,  and 
shadows  more  shaded,  than  in  our  better  balanced 
West.  Believe  that  you  more  truly  feel  the  pictur- 
esqueness  of  that  turban,  and  that  garb  moving 


84  3  ILE    NOTES. 

along  the  shore,  because  Verde  Giovane's  "wide- 
awake" and  checked  shooting-jacket  are  hard  before 
us.  We  overhauled  them  one  afternoon,  and  while 
Verde  Giovane  stood  in  a  flat  cap,  and  his  hands  in 
the  shooting-jacket's  pocket,  and  told  us  that  Nero 
was  just  ahead  and  in  sight  that  morning,  Gunning 
suddenly  sprang  upon  deck,  blew  off  his  two  bar- 
rels, laughed  hysterically,  and  glaring  full  at  us, 
we  saw — 0  Dolland !  that  he  had  succumbed  to 
blue  spectacles. 


XII. 

ASYOOT, 

SHERBET  OF  ROSES  in  a  fountained  kiosk  of  Da- 
mascus can  alone  be  more  utterly  oriental  to  the 
imagination  and  sense  than  the  first  interior  view  of 
many-mi nareted  Asyoot. 

Breathe  here,  and  reflect  that  Asyoot  is  a  squalid 
mud  town,  and  perceiving  that,  and  the  other  too, 
as  you  must  needs  do  when  you  are  there,  believe  in 
magic  for  evermore. 

Under  Aboofeyda,  from  the  dragoman  of  a  daha 
bieh  whose  Howadji  were  in  the  small  boat  shoot- 
ing ducks  and  waking  all  the  wild  echoes  of  the 
cliffs,  we  had  heard  of  Nero  just  ahead,  again,  and 
had  left  Verde  and  Gunning  far  behind.  As  the  Ibis 
flew  on  with  favoring  gales,  the  river  became  more 
and  more  winding,  and  the  minarets  of  Asyoot  were 
near  across  the  land,  long  before  the  river  reached 
the  port  of  the  town.  Rounding  one  of  the  points, 
we  descried  two  boats  ahead,  and  we  could  at 
length  distinguish  the  Italian  tricolor  of  Nero  His 


86  NILE    NOTES. 

companion  bore  an  immense  blue  pennant,  that 
floated  in  great  bellying  folds  upon  the  wind,  like  a 
huge  serpent.  Suddenly  we  came  directly  into  the 
wind  and  threw  the  men  ashore  to  track  along  a 
fine  bank  of  acacias.  This  passed,  we  saw  the  blue 
pennant  standing  across  into  the  reach  of  the  stream 
that  stretches  straight  to  Asyoot,  and  a  few  mo- 
ments after,  Nero  emerged  and  strained  canvass 
after,  and  we,  piling  in  our  men  as  soon  as  possible, 
drew  round,  with  the- wind  upon  our  quarter,  in  hot 
pursuit.  The  Ibis  had  not  time  to  win  a  victory  so 
sure;  for  Nero's  "Kid"  frisked  by  the  proud  pen- 
nant, and  mooring  first  to  the  bank,  was  quiet  as 
the  dozing  donkeys  on  the  shore  by  the  time  that  the 
Ibis  touched  the  bank,  and  the  Howadji  landed 
under  a  salute  of  one  gun  from  the  Kid.  Salutatory 
Nero  had  an  arsenal  on  board ;  but  in  that  hour  only 
one  gun  would  go. 

We  were  yet  a  mile  or  two  from  the  town,  which 
lies  inland,  and  we  took  our  way  across  the  fields  in 
which  a  few  of  the  faithful  stared  sedately  upon  the 
green -veiled  Nera,  by  whose  side  rode  the  Pacha, — 
Nero  and  I,  and  a  running  rabble  of  many  colors, 
bringing  up  the  rear.  Herons  floated  snowily  about 
the  green,  woodpeckers,  sparrows,  and  birds  of  sun- 
set plumage,  darted  and  fluttered  over  the  fields, 
deluged  with  the  sunlight ;  and,  under  a  gate  of 


ASYOOT.  87 

Saracenic  arch,  heralded  by  the  golden-sleeved 
Commander,  we  entered  a  cool,  shady  square. 

It  was  the  court  of  the  Pacha's  palace,  the  chief 
entrance  of  the  town.  A  low  stone  bench  ran  along 
the  base  of  the  glaring  white  walls  of  the  houses 
upon  the  square,  whose  window.s  were  screened  by 
blinds,  as  dark  as  the  walls  were  white,  and  sitting, 
and  lounging  upon  this  bench,  groups  of  figures, — 
smoking,  sipping  coffee,  arrayed  in  gorgeous  stuffs — 
for  this  in  sober  sadness  was  the  court  circle,  with 
the  long  beards  flowing  from  the  impassible  dark 
faces, — gazed  with  serious  sweet  Arabian  eyes  upon 
the  Howadji.  The  ground  was  a  hard,  smooth,  clay 
floor,  and  an  arcade  of  acacias  on  either  hand,  walled 
and  arched  with  grateful,  cool  green,  the  picturesque 
repose  of  the  scene. 

This  was  a  small  square,  and  faded  upon  the  eye, 
forever  daguerreotyped  on  the  memory,  as  we  passed 
over  a  bridge  by  a  shekh's  tomb,  a  mound  of  white 
plaster,  while  under  an  arch  between  glaring  white 
walls,  stood  a  veiled  woman  with  a  high  water-jar 
upon  her  head. 

Threading  the  town,  which  is  built  entirely  of  the 
dark  mud  brick,  we  emerged  upon  the  plain  between 
the  houses  and  the  mountains.  Before  us  a  funeral 
procession  was  moving  to  the  tombs,  and  the  shrill, 
melancholy  cry  of  the  wailers  rang  fitfully  upon  the 


SS  NILE    NOTES. 

low  gusts  that  wailed  more  grievously,  and  for  a 
sadder  sorrow.  We  could  not  overtake  the  proces' 
sion,  but  saw  it  disappear  among  the  white  domes 
of  the  cemetery,  as  we  began  to  climb  the  hills  to 
the  caves — temples,  I  might  say  ;  for  their  tombs  are 
temples  who  reverence  the  dead,  and  these  were  built 
with  a  temple  grandeur  by  a  race  which  honored 
the  forms  that  life  had  honored,  beyond  the  tradition 
or  conception  of  any  other  people.  Great  truths, 
like  the  gods,  have  no  country  or  age,  and  over 
these  ancient  Egyptian  portals  might  have  been 
carved  the  saying  of  the  modern  German  Novalis : 
The  body  of  man  is  the  temple  of  God. 

These  tombs  of  Stabl  Antar  are  chambers  quar- 
ried in  the  rock.  They  are  not  vast,  only,  but 
stately.  The  elevation  of  the  entrances,  and  the  pro- 
portion of  the  chambers,  are  full  of  character.  The 
entrance  is  not  merely  a  way  to  get  in,  but  attracts 
the  eye  by  its  grand  solemn  loftiness.  It  harmo- 
nizes in  sentiment  with  the  figures  sculptured  upon 
its  side — those  mysterious  high-shouldered  profile 
figures,  whose  secret  is  hidden  forever.  The  caves 

o 

do  not  reach  far -into  the  hills,  and  there -are  square 
pits  at  intervals  upon  the  ground  which  the  donkey- 
boys  called  baths.  Haply  without  authority. 

About  these  caves  are  many  bones,  and  a  few 
mummied  human  members,  whereover  many  Nile 


ASYOOT.  89 

poets  wax  melodious.  Eliot  Warburton  speaks  of 
•'  the  plump  arms  of  infancy," — O  poet  Eliot,  were 
they  plump  when  you  saw  them  ?  When  your  pen 
slipped  smoothly  into  that  sentence,  were  you  not 
dreaming  of  those  Egyptian  days,  when,  doubtless, 
babes  were  plump,  and  mothers  fair,  or  had  you 
clearly  in  your  eye  that  shrunken,  blackened,  shape- 
less and  unhuman  mummied  hand  or  foot,  that  your 
one-eyed  donkey-boy  held  in  his  hand  ?  We  must, 
after  all,  confess,  O  Eliot,  that  three-thousand-yeared 
mummied  maidens  and  Verde  Giovanes  of  yesterday 
are  not  poetic,  though  upon  the  Nile. 

There  is  a  broad  platform  in  front  of  the  caves, 
overlooking  the  valley  of  the  river,  the  few  white 
tombs  of  shekhs,  which  dot  the  solitary  places  and 
the  town  below  with  palms  and  acacias,  and  the 
slim  minarets  spiring  silverly  and  strangely  from  the 
undefined  dark  mass  of  mud  houses.  The  Arabian 
mountain  line,  stretched  straightly  and  sadly  into 
the  southern  horizon.  Was  it  the  day  or  the  place, 
was  it  some  antique  ghost  haunting  its  old  haunts 
mournfully,  and  charming  us  with  its  presence,  that 
made  that  broad,  luxuriant  landscape,  with  its  end- 
less dower  of  spots  and  objects  of  fame,  so  sad? 

Yet,  if  ghost  it  were,  Verde  Giovane  laid  him 
—Verde  and  Gunning  mounting  breathlessly  on 
donkeys,  with  handkerchiefs  tied  around  their  wide- 


90  NILE    NOTES. 

awakes,  or  slouch-hats,  to  "  do"  the  Stabl  Antar. 
The  donkey-boys  chewed  sugar-cane  as  they  clucked 
and  chirruped  us  back  to  the  city ;  we,  galloping 
riotously  over  the  plain,  but  gliding  slowly  through 
the  streets,  wondering  if  every  woman  were  not  the 
Princess  of  China — though  which  Howadji  was  the 
Prince  of  Persia?  The  city  was  simply  an  illumi- 
nated chapter  of  the  Arabian  Nights.  The  people 
were  doing  just  what  they  do  there,  sitting  in  the 
same  shops  in  the  same  dresses,  the  same  inscrip- 
tions from  the  Koran  straggled  about  the  walls, 
blurred,  defaced,  and  dim — too  much,  I  fear  me,  as 
the  morals  of  the  Koran  straggle  about  Mohamme- 
dan brains.  There  were  water-carriers,  and  fruit- 
carriers,  and  bread-carriers.  The  dark  turbaned 
Copt,  the  wily-eyed  Turk,  the  sad-eyed  swarthy 
Egyptian,  half  curious,  half  careless,  smoking,  sip- 
ping, quarreling,  cross-legged,  parboiled,  and  indo- 
lent. 

Through  the  narrow  bazaar  pressed  demure  don- 
keys, with  panniers  pregnant  of  weeds  and  waste. 
Camels,  with  calm,  contemptuous  eyes,  swung  their 
Aeads  over  all  others,  and  trod  on  no  naked  feet  in 
the  throng  with  their  own  huge,  soft,,  spongy 
pedals.  Little  children  straddled  the  maternal 
right  shoulder,  and  rode  triumphant  over  turbaned 
men,  unabashed  by  the  impending  camels,  The 


AS  Y  GOT.  91 

throng  was  immense  ;  but  no  sense  of  rush  or  hurry 
heated  the  mind.  There  was  a  constant  murmur, 
but  that  and  the  cool  shade  were  only  the  sound  of 
the  atmosphere  of  the  Arabian  Nights. 

We  stepped  into  smaller  side  passages — veins 
leading  to  the  great  artery  of  the  bazaar — where, 
through  some  open  door,  the  still,  bright  court  of  a 
mosque  was  revealed,  like  the  calm  face  of  a  virgin. 
In  one  niche  stood  a  child  so  handsome,  with  eyes 
that  were  not  devoured  by  flies,  but  round  and 
softly  lashed,  and  very  deep  and  tender,  that  I  began 
to  feel  that,  after  all,  I  might  be  the  Prince  of 
Persia. 

Yet  it  was  strange  how  the  scene  separated  itself 
from  the  actors.  They  were  essential  as  picturesque 
objects,  but  slovenly,  ugly,  and  repugnant,  as  fellow- 
men.  The  East,  like  the  natures  which  it  symbol- 
izes, is  a  splendid  excess.  There  is  no  meanure,  no 
moderation  in  its  richness  and  beauty,  or  in  its 
squalor  and  woe.  The  crocodile  looks  out  from  a 
lotus  bank,  the  snake  coils  in  the  corner  of  the 
hareem,  and  a  servant,  who  seems  slave  from  the 
soul  out,  conducts  you  to  the  most  dream-like  beau- 
tiful of  women.  So,  as  we  sauntered  through  the 
bazaar  of  Asyoot,  we  passed  the  figures  of  men  with 
no  trace  of  manliness,  but  with  faces  full  of  inanity 
and  vice.  The  impression  would  be  profoundly  sad 


92  NILE    NOTES. 

if  you  could  feel  their  humanity.  But  they  are  so 
much  below  the  lowest  level  known  to  a  Western, 
that  they  disappear  from  sympathy.  Then  suddenly 
passes  a  face  like  a  vision,  and  your  eyes  turn,  fasci- 
nated, to  follow,  as  if  they  had  seen  the  realized 
perfection  of  an  ideal  beauty. 

Oriental  masculine  beauty  is  so  mild  and  feminine, 
that  the  men  are  like  statues  of  men  seen  in  the 
most  mellowing  and  azure  atmosphere.  The  forms 
of  the  face  have  a  surprising  grace  and  perfection. 
They  are  not  statues  of  heroes  and  gods  so  seen, 
but  the  budding  beauty  of  Antinous,  when  he,  too, 
had  been  in  this  soft  climate ;  the  ripening,  round- 
ing lip,  the  arched  brow,  the  heavy,  drooping  lid, 
the  crushed,  closed  eye,  like  a  bud  bursting  with 
voluptuous  beauty,  the  low,  broad  brow  ;  these  I 
remember  at  Asyoot,  and  remember  forever.  There 
is  nothing  Western  comparable  with  this.  Some 
Spanish  and  Italian  faces  suggest  it.  But  they  lack 
the  mellow  harmony  of  hue  and  form.  Western 
beauty  is  intellectual,  but  intellect  has  no  share  in 
this  oriental  charm.  It  is  in  kind,  the  same  superi- 
ority which  the  glowing  voluptuousness  of  color  of 
the  Venetian  school  of  painting,  in  which  form  is 
secondary  and  subdued,  has  over  the  serenity  of  the 
Roman  and  Tuscan  schools,  which  worship  form. 
And,  according  as  a  man  is  born  with  an  Eastern  or 


ASYOOT.  93 

Western  nature,  will  he  prefer  this  or  that  beauty. 
The  truest  thing  in  Byron  was  his  great  oriental  ten- 
dency. Men  of  profoundly  passionate  natures,  in- 
stinctively crave  the  East,  or  must  surround  them- 
selves with  an  eastern  atmosphere  and  influence. 
The  face  of  every  handsome  oriental  is  the  face  of  a 
passionate  poet  in  repose ;  and  if  you  have  in  yourself 
the  key  of  the  mystery,  you  will  perceive  poems 
there  that  never  have  been,  and  never  can  be, 
written,  more  than  the  sad  sweet  strength  of  the 
Sphinx's  beauty  can  be  described.  Yet,  young 
yearner  for  the  East,  do  not  fancy  that  you  shall 
always  walk  glorious  among  silent  poets  when  you 
touch  that  land,  so  golden-shored  and  houri-peopled 
in  our  cold  imaginations.  The  handsome  of  whom 
I  speak  are  rare  as  poets  are. 

Not  only  will  you  find  the  faces  revolting,  but 
the  body  is  maimed  to  a  frightful  degree.  Every 
second  man  lacks  an  eye  or  forefinger,  or  he  is  en- 
tirely blind.  The  Egyptians  maimed  themselves  to 
escape  Mehemet  Ali's  conscription.  Seyd,  the  first 
officer  of  the  Ibis,  as  we  have  seen,  had  put  out 
his  right  eye,  that  he  might  have  no  aim,  others 
chop  off  their  forefinger,  that  they  may  not  pull  a 
trigger. 

But  more  than  all  disgusting  is  the  sight  of  flies 
feeding  upon  the  acrid  humors  that  exude  from  dis- 


y4  N  I L  E    N  0  T  E  S . 

eased  eyes  ;  a  misery  that  multiplies  itself.  The  na- 
tives believe  that  to  wash  this  away  will  produce 
blindness.  So  it  remains,  and  nine-tenths  of  the 
young  children  whom  you  pass,  are  covered,  like  car- 
rion, with  pertinacious  flies,  so  that  your  own  eyes 
water,  though  the  children  seem  not  to  heed  it.  Thus 
accustomed  to  that  pojnt  and  that  food,  the  fly  makes 
directly  for  the  eye  upon  every  new  face  that  he 
explores,  not  without  vivid  visions  to  the  proprietor, 
of  imported  virus,  borne  by  these  loathsome  bees 
of  disease. 

We  tasted  sweets  at  a  Turkish  greybeard's  —  a 
fire-worshipper,  I  doubt  not,  from  the  intense  twink- 
ling redness  of  his  mole  eyes ;  then  through  the 
slave  market — empty,  for  the  caravan  from  Darfour 
was  not  yet  arrived  ;  then  went  on  to  the  bath  and 
were  happy. 

Yet,  while  we  lie  turbaned  and  luxurious  upon 
these  cushions  of  the  bagnio,  inhaling  the  pleasant 
tobacco  of  these  lands,  fancy  for  a  moment  our  sen- 
sations, when,  in  the  otiose  parboiled  state,  we 
raised  vague  eyes  through  the  reeking  warm  mist 
of  the  sudarium,  and  beheld  Verde  Giovane,  gazing 
semi-scornfully  through  the  door  !  To  the  otiose 
parboiled,  however,  succeeds  the  saponaceous  state, 
in  which  all  merely  human  emotion  slips  smoothly 
away 


A  S  Y  0  0  T .  95 

The  crew  returned  at  midnight  to  the  Ibis,  and 
tumbled  their  newly-baked  bread  upon  the  deck 
over  our  heads,  with  a  confused  shouting  and  scram- 
ble, in  the  midst  of  which  I  heard  the  gurgling 
water,  and  knew  that  the  famed  Lycopolis  of  old 
Greece  (why  "upstart  Greeks,"  poet  Harriet?)  was 
now  set  away  as  a  choice  bit  of  memory,  which  no 
beautiful  Damascus,  nor  storied  Cairo,  could  dis- 
place, although  they  might  surpass. 

But  while  the  Ibis  spreads  her  wings  southward 
under  the  stars,  let  us  recall  and  believe  the  fair 
tradition  that  makes  many-minareted  Asyoot  the 
refuge  of  Mary  and  her  child,  during  the  reign  of 
Herod.  So  is  each  lovely  landscape  adorned  witn 
tales  so  fair,  that  the  whole  land  is  like  a  soiemn- 
broWed  Lsis  radiantly  jeweled. 


XIII. 

THE    SUN, 

THE  sun  is  the  secret  of  the  East.  There  seems 
to  be  no  light  elsewhere.  Italy  simply  preludes 
the  Orient.  Sorrento  is  near  the  secret.  Sicily  is 
like  its  hand  stretched  forth  over  the  sea.  Their 
sunsets  and  dreamy  days  are  delicious,  f  iou  may 
well  read  Hafiz  in  the  odorous  orange  darkness  of 
Sorrento,  and  believe  that  the  lustrous  leaves  lan- 
guidly moving  over  you.  are  palms  yielding  to  the 
wooing  of  Arabian  winds.)  ''The  song  of  the  Syrens, 
heard  by  you  at  evening,  from  these  rocks,  as  you 
linger  along  the  shore,  is  the  same  that  Ulysses 
heard,  seductive,  sweet,  the  same  that  Hadrian  must 
have  leaned  to  hear,  as  he  s.wept,  silken-sailed,  east- 
ward^Las  if  he  had  not  more  than  possible  eastern 
conquest  in  his  young  Antinous  ! 

But  the  secret  sweetness  of  that  song  is  to  you 
what  it  was  to  Ulysses.  Son  of  the  East,  it  sang  to 
him  his  native  language,  and  he  longed  to  remain. 
Son  of  the  West,  tarry  not  thou  for  that  sweet  sing- 


THE    SUN.  97 

ing,  but  push  bravely  on  and  land  where  the  song  is 
realized. 

The  East  is  a  voluptuous  reverie  of  nature.  Its 
Egyptian  days  are  perfect.  You  breathe  the  sun- 
light. You  feel  it  warm  in  your  lungs  and  heart. 
The  whole  system  absorbs  sunshine,  and  all  your 
views  of  life  become  warmly  and  richly  voluptuous. 
Your  day-dreams  rise,  splendid  with  sun-sparkling 
aerial  architecture.  ^  Stories  are  told,  songs  are  sung, 
in  your  mind,  and  the  scenery  of  each,  and  the  per- 
sons, are  such  as  is  Damascus,  seen  at  morning  from 
the  Salaheeyah,  or  Saladin,  heroic  and  graceful,  in 
the  rosy  light  of  chivalric  tradition./ 

The  Egyptian  sun  does  not  glare,  it  shines.  The 
light  has  a  creamy  quality,  soft  and  mellow,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  the  intense  whiteness  of  our  Ameri- 
can light.  The  forms  of  our  landscape  stand  sharp 
and  severe  in  the  atmosphere,  like  frost-work.  But 
the  Eastern  outlines  are  smoothed  and  softened. 
The  sun  is  the  mediator,  and  blends  beautifully  the 
separate  beauties  of  the  landscape.  It  melts  the 
sterner  stuff  of  your  nature.  The  intellect  is 
thawed  and  mellowed.  Emotions  take  the  place 
of  thought.  Sense  rises  into  the  sphere  of  soul.  It 
becomes  so  exquisite  and  refined,  that  the  old  land- 
marks in  the  moral  world  begin  to  totter  and  dance. 

They  remain    nowhere,   they  have    no   permanent 
5 


98  NILE    NOTES. 


t  Delight  and  satisfaction, ! which  are  not  sen- 

sual, but  sensuous,  become  the  law  of  your  being } 
conscience,  lulleoVall-the-way-from--Sici]y  in  the  soft 
-rocking-lap  of  the  Mediterranean,' falls  quite  asleep 
at  Cairo,!  and  you  take  your  chance  with  the  other 
flowers.'U  frhe  thoughts  that  try  to  come,  masque 
no  more  as  austere  and  sad-browed  men,  but  pass  as 
large-eyed,  dusky  maidens,  now,  with  fair  folding 
arms  that  fascinate  you  to  their  embrace))'  Even  old 
thoughts  throng  to  you  in  this  glowing  guise.  The 
Howadji  feels,  once  more,  how  the  Nile  flows  behind 
history,  and  he  glides  gently  into  the  rear  of  all 
modern  developments,  and  stands  in  the  pure  pre- 
sence of  primitive  feeling — perceives  the  naturalness 
of  the  world's  first  worship^  and  is  an  antique  Ara- 
bian, a  devotee  of  the  sun,  "  as  he  sails,  as  he  sails." 

For  sun-worship  is  an  instinct  of  the  earliest 
races.  The  sun  and  stars  are  the  first  great  friends 
of  man.  By  the  o_ne  he  directs  his  movements,  by 
the  light  of  the  other  he  gathers  the  fruit  its  warmth 
has  ripened.  Gratitude  is  natural  to  the  youth,  and 
he  adores  where  he  loves — and  of  the  God  of  the 
last  and  wisest  faith,  the  sun-is  still -the -symbol. 

This  sun  shines  again  in  the  brilliance  of  the  col- 
ors the  Easterns  love.  The  sculptures  upon  the  old 
tombs  and  temples  are  of  the  most  positive  colors — 
red.  blue,  yellow,  green  and  black,  were  the  colors 


THE    SUN.  99 

of  the  old  Egyptians — and  still  the  instinct  is  tho 
same  in  their  costume.  The  poetic  Howadji  would 
fancy  they  had  studied  the  beauty  of  rainbows 
against  dark  clouds.'  For  golden  and  gay  are  the 
turbans  wreathed  around  their  dusky  brows  and 
figures — the  very  people  of  poetry,  of  which  Titian 
and  Paul  divinely  dreamed,  but  could  never  paint, 
sit  forever  in  crimson  turbans — yellow,  blue,  and 
white  robes  with  red  slippers  crossed  under  them, 
languidly  breathing  smoke  over  Abana  and  Pharpar, 
rivers  of  Damascus.  And  the  buildings  in  which 
they  sit,  the  walls  of  baths,  and  cafes,  and  mosques, 
are  painted  in  the  same  gorgeous  taste,  with  broad 
bars  of  red,  and  blue,  and  white.  Over  all  this  bril- 
liance streams  the  intense  sunshine,  and  completes 
what  itself  suggested.  So  warm,  so  glowing,  and 
rich,  is  the  universal  light  and  atmosphere,  that  anj 
thing  less  than  this  in  architecture,  would  be  unnat- 
ural. Strange  and  imperfect  as  it  is,  you  feel  the 
heart  of  nature  throbbing  all  through  Eastern  art 
Art  there  follows  the  plainest  hints  of  nature  in  cos- 
tume and  architecture  now,  as  in  the  antique  archi- 
tecture. The  fault  of  oriental  art  springs  from  the 
very  excess,  which  is  the  universal  law  of  Eastern 
life.  It  is  the  apparent  attempt  to  say  more  than  is 
sayable.  In  the  infinite  and  exquisite  elaborations 
of  Arabian  architecture,  there  is  the  evident  effort 


NILE    NOTES. 

to  realize  all  the  subtle  and  strange  whims  of  a  luxu- 
riously-inspired imagination  ;  and  hence  results  an 
art  that  lacks  large  features  and  character,  like  the 
work  of  a  man  who  loves  the  details  of  his  dreams. 

The  child's  faith,  that  the  East  lies  near  the  rising 
sun,  is  absurd  until  you  are  there.  Then  you  feel 
that  it  was  his  first-born,  and  inherits  the  elder  share 
of  his  love  and  influence.  Wherever  your  eye  falls, 
it  sees  the  sun  and  the  sun's  suggestion.  Egypt 
lies  hard  against  its  heart.  But  the  sun  is  like  other 
fathers,  and  his  eldest  is  spoiled. 

As  you  sweep,  sun-tranced,  up  the  river,  the 
strongest,  most  distinct  desire  of  being  an  artist, 
is  born  of  silence  and  the  sun.  So  saturated  are 
you  with  light  and  color,  that  they  would  seem  to 
flow  unaided  from  the  brush.  But  not  so  readily, 
importunate  reader,  from  the  pen.  Words  are 
worsted  by  the  East.  Chiaro  'scuro  will  not  give  it. 
A  man  must  be  very  cunning  to  persuade  his  pen  to 
reveal  those  secrets.  But,  if  an  artist,  I  would  tarry 
and  worship  a  while  in  the  temples  of  Italy,  then 
hurry  across  the  sea  into  the  presence  of  the  power 
there  adored.  There  I  should  find  that  Claude  was 
truly  a  consecrated  priest.  For  this  silence  and  sun 
breathe  beauty  along  his  canvass.  His  pictures  are 
more  than  Italian,  more  than  the  real  sunset  from 
the  Pincio  ;  for  they  are  the  ideal  Italy  which  bends 


THE    SUN.  101 

over  the  Nile  and  fulfills  the  South.  The  cluster  of 
boats  with  gay  streamers  at  Luxor,  and  the  tur- 
baned  groups  under  the  temple  columns  on  the 
shore,  do  justify  those  sunset  dreams  of  Claude  Lor- 
raine, that  stately  architecture  upon  the  sea. 

I  was  lost  in  a  sun-dream  one  afternoon,  wondering 
if,  Saturn-like,  the  sun  would  not  one  day  utterly 
consume  his  child,  when  I  heard  the  Commander 
exclaim  :  "  El  Karnak  !"  much  as  Columbus  might 
have  heard  "  land"  from  his  mast-head. 

"  There,"    said   the    Commander  ;    and   I   could 
scarcely  believe  such  a  confirmation  of  my  dreams 
of  palm  architecture,  as  my  eye  followed  the  point 
ing  of  his  finger  to  a  dim,  distant  point. 

"Those?"  said  I. 

"Those,"  said  he. 

I  looked  again  with  the  glass  and  beheld,  soli- 
tary and  stately  upon  the  distant  shore,  a  company 
of  most  undoubted  trees  !  The  Pacha  was  smiling 
at  my  side,  and  declaring  that  he  saw  some  very  fine 
palms.  The  Commander  looked  again,  confessed 
his  mistake,  and  in  extenuation,  I  remarked  that  he 
was  not  golden-sleeved.  And,  after  all,  what  was 
Ala-ed-deen,  if  Mr.  Lane  will  spell  Aladdin  so, 
without  his  lamp? 

A  few  moments  after,  a  small  boat  drew  up  to  us, 
and  an  Emerald  Howadji  stepped  on  board  He 


102  NILE    NOTES. 

had  left  Thebes  at  two  o'clock,  which  sounded 
strangely  to  me  when  he  said  it ;  for  I  fancied 
Thebes  already  to  have  done  with  time  and  become 
the  property  of  eternity.  He  coffeed  and  smoked, 
and  would  leave  a  duck  for  dinner,  gave  us  all  the 
last  news  from  Thebes,  then  shook  hands  and  went 
over  the  side  of  the  Ibis,  and  out  of  our  knowledge 
forever. 

Bon  voyage,  Emerald  Howadji !  and  as  he  pulled 
rapidly  away  with  the  flowing  stream  toward  his 
descending  dahabieh,  he  fired  at  a  heron  that  was 
streaming  whitely  over  him  across  the  stream — a 
parting  salute,  possibly,  and  the  dead  heron  streamed 
whitely  after  hi^i  upon  the  river. 


XIV 

THEBES   TRIUMPHANT, 

THE  warm  vaporous  evening  gathered,  and  we 
moored  in  a  broad,  beautiful  bay  of  the  river.  Far 
inland  over  the  shore,  the  mountain  lines,  differently 
dark,  waved  away  into  the  night.  There  were  no 
masts  upon  the  river  but  our  own,  and  only  one 
neighboring  sakia  moaned  to  the  twilight.  Groups 
of  turbaned  figures  crouched  upon  the  bank.  They 
looked  as  immovable  forms  of  the  landscape  as  the 
trees.  Moulded  of  mystery,  they  sat  like  spirits  of 
the  dead-land  personified.  In  the  south,  the  Libyan 
mountains  came  to  the  river,  vague  and  dim,  steal- 
thily approaching  like  the  shy  monsters  of  the 
desert.  The  eye  could  not  escape  the  fascination  of 
those  fading  forms  ;  for  those  mountains  overhung 
Thebes. 

Moored  under  the  palm-trees  in  the  gray  begin- 
nings of  the  evening,  by  the  sad  mud  huts  and  the 
squalid  fellah,  and  within  the  spell  of  the  sighing 
sakia,  I  remembered  Thebes  and  felt  an  outcast  of 
time. 

A  world  died  before  our  history  was  born.     The 


104  NILE    NOTES. 

pomp  and  splendor  had  passed  along — the  sounds 
that  were  the  words  of  a  great  life  had  swept  for- 
ward into  silence,  and  I  lingered  in  the  wake  of 
splendor,  like  a  drowning  child  behind  a  ship,  feel- 
ing it  fade  away.  I  remembered  the  West,  too,  and 
ts  budding  life — its  future,  an  unrolled  heaven  of 
new  constellations.  But  it  was  only  a  dream  dizzy- 
ing the  brain,  as  a  man,  thirst-stricken,  dreams  of 
flowing  waters.  Here,  for  the  first  time,  probably 
the  only  time  of  a  life,  I  felt  the  grandeur  and  re- 
ality of  the  past  preponderate  over  all  time.  It 
was  the  success  of  Egypt  in  the  East.  A  fading, 
visionary  triumph,  as  of  a  dumb  slave  who  wins  for 
a  single  night  the  preference  of  her  master. 

But  in  that  mountain  shadow  sat  Memnon.  darling 
of  the  dawn,  drawing  reverence  backward  to  the 
morning  of  time.  I  felt  the  presence  of  his  land 
and  age,  sitting  solemn,  saddening  but  successful,  in 
the  hush  of  my  mind,  as  he  sat,  marvellous,  but 
melodious  no  longer,  rapt  in  the  twilight  repose.  It 
was  not  a  permanent  feeling.  The  ever  young  stars 
looked  out,  and  smiled  away  antiquity  as  a  vapor. 
They  who  have  visions  of  the  dead  floating  fair  in  their 
old  beauty  and  power,  do  not  see  them  so  always, 
perhaps  never  again.  They  repair  like  all  men  to 
their  tombs,  and  dream  vaguely  of  the  departed 
But  those  tombs  are  temples  to  them  forever  after. 


XV. 

THE   CROCODILE, 

"  Where  naked  boys,  bridling  tame  i^ater  snakes, 

Or  charioteering  ghastly  alligators, 
Had  left  on  the  sweet  waters  mighty  wakea 
Of  those  huge  forms " 

DAY  and  night  the  Ibis  did  not  rest,  except  when 
the  wind  fell,  and  her  wings  fell  with  it.  She  pass 
ed  Dendereh — Thebes — Luxor.  A  light  breeze 
wrafted  her  along,  and  those  sights  of  fame  grew 
fair  and  faded,  like  pictures  on  the  air.  The  up- 
ward Nile  voyage  is  a  Barmecide  feast.  You  do  not 
pause,  except  at  Asyoot  for  the  crew  to  bake  bread, 
and  at  Esne,  dear  to  Verde  Giovane — so  you  enjoy 
the  great  fames  and  places  by  name  only ;  as  Sha- 
cabac,  the  Barber's  sixth  brother,  delighted  in  the 
sweet  bread,  and  the  chicken  stuffed  with  pistachio 
and  the  golden  cups  of  wine,  although  they  did  not 
appear  until  he  had  rehearsed  his  emotions.  So 
finally,  you,  having  partaken  the  Barmecide  feast  of 
the  ascent,  and  passed  Memphis,  Abydos,  Dendereh 
Edfoo,  and  Kalabsheh,  clap  your  hands  at  Aboo 
Simbel,  and  returning,  taste  the  reality  of  Egypt. 

5* 


106  NILE    NOTES. 

But  we  were  to  stop  at  Esne,  for  another  bread- 
baking  for  the  crew.  There  was  an  unwonted  dis- 
play of  fine  raiment  as  the  afternoon  waned — 
coarse  hempen  blankets  gave  place  to  blue  cotton 
kaftans — the  same  that  the  female  Bull  insisted 
upon  calling  nightgowns.  Under  these,  the  white 
vest,  with  the  row  of  close-set  buttons,  was  not 
unhandsome.  Bjat  when  the  ample  turban  went 
round  the  head,  how  great  was  that  glory !  With 
horror  I  beheld  Seyd  contemplating  his  slippers,  and 
thence  knew  that  Esne  was  a  place  of  especial  im- 
portance. 

Strange  is  the  magic  of  a  turban.  Eastern  gar- 
ments are  always  graceful,  and  truly  the  turban  is 
the  crown  of  grace,  and  honored  as  the  protector 
of  the  human  head  should  be.  There  are  fashions 
and  colors  in  turbans.  The  Turkish  is  heavy  and 
round — the  Syrian  broad  and  flat,  roll  outside  roll 
of  rich  Cashmere.  A  special  chair  is  consecrated 
to  the  repose  of  the  turban — and  losing  the  sub- 
stance in  the  form,  when  an  irreverent  donkey 
threw  a  shekh  of  dignity  into  the  dirt,  and  among 
the  camel  legs  of  a  bazaar,  causing  him  to  shed  his 
turban  in  tumbling,  the  reverent  crowd  eagerly  pur- 
sued the  turban,  and  rescuing  it,  bore  it  with  care 
in  their  hands,  shouting,  "  lift  up  the  crown  of  El 
Islam" — while  the  poor  neglected  shekh  angrily 


THE     CROCODILE.  107 

cried  from  the  dirt,  "  lift  up  the  shekh  of  El  Islam.'' 
The  lords  of  the  land,  and  the  luxurious,  wreathe 
around  their  heads  Cashmere  shawls  of  texture  so 
delicate,  that  they  may  be  drawn  through  a  thin 
signet  ring,  yet  they  are  as  full  and  rich  upon  the 
head  as  the  forms  of  sunset  clouds  whose  brilliance 
they  emulate. 

This  day,  before  Esne,  Abdallah,  oar  Samsonian 
Abdallah,  sat  glorious  in  the  sunset  in  an  incredible 
turban.  He  was  not  used  to  wear  one,  content  on 
ordinary  days  with  a  cap  that  had  been  white.  At 
first,  as  if  to  break  his  head  gently  into  the  unac- 
customed luxury,  I  saw  him  sitting  upon  the  boat- 
side  very  solemnly — his  brows  cinctured  with  what 
seemed  to  be  a  mighty  length  of  dishclout.  I  fan- 
cied that  having  assisted  at  the  washing  of  the 
dishes,  he  had  wreathed  his  brows  triumphantly 
with  the  clouts,  as  Indian  warriors  girdled  them- 
selves with  scalps.  But  presently  stationing  the 
weasen-faced  crew's  cook  near  the  mainmast,  with 
one  end  of  a  portentously  long  white  robe  of  cotton, 
he  posted  himself  with  the  other  end  by  the  fore- 
mast, and  then  gradually  drew  the  boy  toward  him, 
as  he  turned  his  head  like  a  crank,  and  so  wound 
himself  up  with  glory.  Afterward  I  saw  him  mov- 
ing with  solemn  cautiousness,  and  with  his  hands 
ready — as  if  he  were  the  merest  trifle  top-heavy. 


10S  XILE    NOTES. 

Fate  paints  what  it  will  upon  the  canvass  of  memory, 
and  I  must  forever  see  the  great,  gawky,  dog-faith- 
ful, abused,  Samsonian  Abdallah,  sitting  turbaned 
on  the  boatside  in  the  sunset. 

"  A  crocodile,"  shouted  the  Commander.  And 
the  Howadji  saw,  for  the  first  time,  the  pet  monster 
of  the  Nile. 

He  lay  upon  a  sunny  sand  shore,  at  our  right,  a 
hideous,  horrible  monster — a  scaled  nightmare  upon 
the  day.  He  was  at  least  twenty  feet  long  ;  but 
seeing  the  Ibis  with  fleet  wings  running,  he  slipped, 
slowly  soughing,  head  foremost,  and  leisurely,  into 
the  river. 

It  was  the  first  blight  upon  the  beauty  of  the 
Nile.  The  squalid  people  were  at  least  picturesque, 
with  their  costume  and  water-jars  on  the  shore. 
But  this  mole-eyed,  dragon-tailed  abomination,  who 
is  often  seen  by  the  same  picturesque  people,  slug- 
gishly devouring  a  grandam,  or  child,  on  the  inac- 
cessible opposite  bank,  was  utterly  loathsome. 
Yet  he,  too,  had  his  romantic  side,  the  scaly  night- 
mare !  so  exquisite  and  perfect  are  the  compensa- 
tions of  nature.  For  if,  in  the  perpetual  presence 
of  forms  and  climate  so  beautiful,  and  the  feeling 
of  a  life  so  intense  as  the  Egyptian,  there  is  the  con- 
stant feeling  that  the  shadow  must  be  as  deep  as 
the  sun  is  bright,  and  that  weeds  must  foully  flaunt 


THE    CROCODILE  109 

Where  flowers  are  fairest ;  so,  when  the  shadow 
sloped,  and  the  weed  was  seen,  they  had  their  own 
suggestions  of  an  opposite  grace,  and  in  this  loath- 
some spawn  of  slime  and  mystic  waters,  it  was 
plain  to  see  the  dragon  of  oriental  romance.  Had 
the  Howadji  followed  this  feeling,  and  penetrated 
to  Buto,  they  might  have  seen  Sinbad's  valley. 
For  there  Herodotus  saw  the  bones  of  winged 
snakes,  as  the  Arabians  called  them.  These,  with- 
out doubt,  were  the  bones  of  serpents,  which,  being 
seized  by  birds  and  borne  aloft,  seemed  to  the  as- 
tonished people  to  be  serpents  flying,  and  were  in- 
corporated into  the  Arabian  romances  as  worthy 
wonders. 

The  Pacha  felt  very  like  St.  George,  and  longed 
to  destroy  the  dragon;  but  having  neither  sword, 
spear,  nor  shield — only  that  trusty  one-barrelled  gun 
and  no  jolly-boat  (I  understood  then  why  all  our 
English  friends  have  that  boat),  he  was  obliged  to 
see  the  enemy  slinking  untouched  into  the  stream, 
and  relieve  his  mind  by  rehearsing  to  me  the  true 
method  of  ending  dragons — opportunity  and  means 
volentibus.  You  do  not  see  the  crocodile  without  a 
sense  of  neighborhood  to  the  old  Egyptians ;  for 
they  are  the  only  live  relics  of  that  dead  time,  and 
Ramses  the  Great  saw  them  sprawled  on  the  sunny 
sand  as  Howadji  the  Little  sees  them  to-day. 


110  XILE    NOTES. 

The  crocodile  was  not  universally  honored.  In 
Lower  Egypt  it  was  especially  sacred,  and  it  was 
buried  with  dead  kings  in  the  labyrinth — too  sacred 
in  death  even  for  Herodotus  to  see — and,  doubtless, 
quite  as  much  to  our  advantage  unseen  by  him  ;  for 
had  he  been  admitted  to  the  tombs,  our  reverent  and 
reverend  father  would  probably  have  "preferred" 
to  say  nothing  about  them. 

In  some  regions,  however,  there  were  regular 
crocodile  hunts,  and  the  prey  was  eaten — a  proceed- 
ing necessarily  so  disgusting  to  the  devotees  of  the 
dragon,  that  they  were  obliged  to  declare  war 
against  the  impious,  and  endeavor  to  inhibit  abso- 
lutely the  consumption  of  crocodile  chops.  They 
did  not  regard  Dragon  himself  as  a  god,  but  as  sa 
cred  to  the  god  Savak,  who  was  crocodile-headed, 
and  a  deified  form  of  the  sun. 

For,  in  the  City  of  Crocodiles,  founded  gratefully 
oy  King  Menas,  whom  a  crocodile  ferried  over  the 
lake  Moenis  upon  his  back,  when  the  disloyal  hunt- 
ing-hounds drove  royalty  into  the  water,  was  a 
crocodile  so  sacred,  that  it  was  kept  separately  in  an 
especial  lake,  and  suffered  the  touching  of  the 
priests  with  a  probable  view  to  touching  them  ef- 
fectually on  some  apt  occasion.  This  was  the  croco- 
dile Sachus,  says  Sir  Gardner,  quoting  Strabo,  and 
Strabo's  host,  a  man  of  mark — "  one  of  our  most 


THE    CROCODILE.  Ill 

distinguished  citizens  "  in  the  City  of  Crocodiles — 
showed  him  and  his  friends  the  sacred  curiosities, 
conducting  them  to  the  brink  of  the  lake,  on  whose 
bank  the  animal  was  extended.  While  some  of  the 
priests  opened  its  mouth,  one  put  in  the  cake,  and 
then  the  meat,  after  which  the  wine  was  poured  in. 
The  crocodile  then  dived  and  lounged  to  the  other 
side  of  the  lake  for  a  similar  lunch,  offered  by 
another  stranger.  It  has  no  tongue,  says  Plutarch, 
speaking  through  Sir  Gardner,  and  is  therefore  re- 
garded as  an  image  of  the  Deity  itself — "  the  divine 
reason  needing  not  speech,  but  going  through  still 
and  silent  paths,  while  it  administers  the  world  with 
justice." 

Who  shall  say  that  the  Egyptians  of  old  were 
not  poets  ?  The  ears  of  crocodiles  were  decked 
with  ear-rings,  and  the  fore  feet  with  bracelets. 
They  loved  life  too  well,  those  elder  brethren  of 
ours,  to  suffer  any  refuse  in  their  world.  As  with 
children,  every  thing  was  excellent  and  dear.  If 
they  hated,  they  hated  with  Johnsonian  vigor ;  and 
which  of  the  Persian  poets  is  it  who  says  that  hate 
is  only  love  inverted  ?  Nor  revile  their  animal 
worship,  since  they  did  not  make  all  Dragons 
Gods ;  but  had  always  some  sentiment  of  gratitude 
and  reverence  in  the  feeling  which  consecrated 
any  animal.  There  were  but  four  animals  univer- 


112  NILE    NOTES 

sally  sacred — the  Ibis,  Hawk,  Cynocephalus,  and 
Apis. 

Animal  worship  was  only  a  more  extended  and 
less  poetic  Manicheism.  Simple  shepherds  loved 
the  stars  and  worshipped  them.  But  shepherds  lose 
their  simplicity  in  towns,  and  their  poetic  worship 
goes  out  through  prose  to  a  machinery  of  forms.  The 
distance  from  the  Arabian  worship  of  stars,  to  the 
mystic  theology  of  Egypt,  is  no  greater  than  from 
the  Syrian  simplicity  of  Jesus  Christ  to  the  dusky 
dogmas  of  Rome  or  Geneva. 

But  what  right  have  our  pages  to  such  names  as 
Apis  and  Cynocephalus  ?  The  symmetry,  not  the 
significance,  of  hieroglyphs,  is  the  shrine  of  our  wor- 
ship. Feebly  flies  the  Ibis,  while  the  sun  sets  in  a 
palm-grove,  and  long,  sad  vapors,  dashed  with  dying 
light,  drift  and  sweep  formlessly  through  the  blue, 
like  Ossianic  ghosts  about  a  dying  hero,  who  wail  by 
waving  mournfully  their  flexile  length.  The  reis 
beat  the  tarabuka.  Abdallah  blew  the  arghool,  a 
reedy  pipe,  that  I  dreamed  might  draw  Pan  himself 
to  the  shore,  or  a  nymph  to  float  in  a  barque  of 
moon-pearled  lotus,  across  the  calm.  Aboo  Seyd 
clinked  the  castanets,  and  the  crew  sang  plaintively, 
clapping  their  hands.  So  we  slid  into  Esne  ;  and 
as  the  Ibis  nestled  in  the  starlight  to  the  shore, 
she  shook  poor  litt]tj  lithe  Congo  from  her  wing. 


THE    CROCODILE.  113 

He  fell  with  a  cry  and  a  heavy  plunge  upon  the 
deck.  The  Howadji  ran  forward,  but  found  no 
bones  broken,  only  cuts  and  bumps,  and  bruises, 
which  the  Pacha  knew  how  to  treat.  The  crew 
shook  doleful  heads,  and  were  sure  that  it  was  the 
work  of  the  evil  eye — the  glance  of  envy -cast  upon 
the  Ibis  by  a  neighboring  dragoman,  when  he  heard 
that  she  was  only  eighteen  days  from  Cairo.  Congo 
was  brought  to  the  rear  and  laid  upon  a  mattress 
and  cushions.  All  that  Pachalic  skill  could  do  was 
done ;  and  you,  ye  Indian  youths  and  maidens,  sages 
and  hags  of  the  West,  sing  to  the  sleeping  Congo 
the  Pacha's  salvatory  successes. 

I  saw  dimly  a  mud  town,  and  on  the  bank  under 
a  plane-tree  a  little  hut,  yclept  by  the  luxurious 
orientals,  coffee-shop.  Thither,  being  robed  with 
due  magnificence,  the  Commander  proceeded,  and 
bestowed  the  blessing  of  the  golden-sleeved  bour- 
nouse  upon  the  undeserving  Esnians. 


XVI. 

GETTING   ASHORE, 

GREAT  is  travel !  Yesterday  Merrmon,  to-day  a 
crocodile,  to-morrow  dancing-girls — and  all  sunned 
by  a  January,  whose  burning  brilliance  shames  our 
fairest  June  fervors.  This  comes  of  going  down  to 
the  sea  in  ships,  and  doing  business  upon  the  great 
waters,  and  Sinbading  round  the  world  generally. 

Yet  there  are  those  who  cultivate  chimney  cor- 
ners, and  chuckle  that  a  rolling-stone  gathers  no 
jtioss,  who  fillip  their  fingers  at  Memnon  and  the 
sources  of  the  white  Nile,  who  order  warm  slippers 
and  declare  that  travelling  is  a  fool's  paradise.  Yes. 
But,  set  in  the  azure  air  of  that  paradise  stands  the 
Parthenon,  perfect  as  Homer.  There  are  the 
Coliseum,  the  Forum,  and  the  earth-quaking  memo- 
ries of  Rome.  There  Memnon  sings  and  the  Gondo- 
lier. There  wave  palms,  and  birds  of  unimagined 
plumage  float.  There  are  the  mossy  footsteps  of 
history,  the  sweet  sources  of  song,  the  sacred  shrines 
of  religion. 

'— '  * 


GETTING    ASHORE.  116 

Objective  all,  I  know  you  will  respond,  fat  friend 
of  the  warm  slippers,  and  you  will  take  down  your 
Coleridge  and  find, 

"  O  lady,  we  receive  but  what  we  give, 
And  in  our  life  alone  does  nature  live." 

Yes  —  again,  but  I  mistrust  your  poet  was 
abroad  when  he  sang  those  numbers.  The  melo- 
dious mystic  could  not  reach  the  fool's  paradise 
through  the  graceful  Grecian  gate,  or  the  more  con- 
genial Egyptian  Pylon — so  through  rainbow  airs, 
opium-pinioned,  he  overflew  the  walls,  and  awhile 
breathed  other  airs.  The  lines  are  only  partially 
true.  Elia,  copying  accounts  in  the  India  House, 
could  not  enjoy  in  the  wood  upon  which  he  wrote, 
the  charm  of  the  tree  which  had  "  died  into  the 
desk."  And  though  nature  be  the  mirror  of  our 
moods — we  can  yet  sometimes  escape  ourselves — as 
we  can  sometimes  forget  all  laws.  "  Go  abroad 
and  forget  yourself,"  is  good  advice.  The  Prodigal 
was  long  and  ruinously  abroad  before  he  came  to 
himself.  And  poets  celebrate  the  law  unlimited, 
which  circumstances  constantly  limit.  You  would 
fancy  Thomson  an  early  riser.  Yet  that  placid  poet, 
who  rented  the  Castle  of  Indolence,  and  made  it  the 
House  Beautiful,  so  that  all  who  pass  are  fain  to 
tarry,  used  to  rise  at  noon,  and,  sauntering  into  the 


116  NILE    NOTES. 

garden,  eat  fruit  from  the  trees  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  and  then  and  there  composed  sonorous 
apostrophes  to  the  rising  sun. 

Travelling  is  a  fool's  paradise,  to  a  fool.  But  to 
him,  staying  at  home  is  the  same  thing.  A  fool  is 
always  in  paradise.  But  into  that  delight,  a  wise 
man  can  no  more  penetrate  than  a  soul  into  a  stone. 
If  you  are  a  fool,  O  friendly  reader  of  the  rolling- 
stone  theory,  you  are  in  the  paradise  you  dread,  and 
hermetically  closed  in.  The  great  gates  clanged 
awfully  behind  you  at  your  birth.  But  if  you  are 
wise,  you  can  never  by  any  chance  get  in.  Allons, 
take  your  slippers,  I  shall  take  passage  with  the 
fool. 

All  this  we  say,  being  somewhat  sleepy,  under  the 
bank  at  Esne,  on  the  verge  of  tumbling  in.  Good 
night !  But  one  word  !  You,  facetious  friends  in 
the  hot  slippers,  what  is  our  so  stable-seeming, 
moss-amassing  Earth  doing  ?  Truly  what  Rip  Van 
Winkle  heard  the  aged  men  do  among  the  moun- 
tains— rolling,  rolling,  rolling  forever. 

O,  friends  of  the  Verde  family,  have  you  duly 
meditated  these  things  ? 


XVII. 

PAIll   FRAILTY, 

FRAIL  are  the  fair  of  Esne.  Yet  the  beauty  ot 
gossamer  webs  is  not  less  beautiful,  because  it  is  not 
sheet-iron.  Let  the  panoplied  in  principle  pass 
Esne  by.  There  dwell  the  gossamer-moraled  Gha- 
wazee.  A  strange  sect  the  Ghawazee — a  race  dedi- 
cate to  pleasure. 

Somewhere  in  these  remote  regions  lay  the  Lotus 
islands.  Mild-eyed  and  melancholy  were  the  forms 
that  swam  those  calm  waters  to  the  loitering  ves- 
sel, and  wooed  the  mariners  with  their  hearts'  own 
longings  soothlier  sung — 

"  Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 
And  through  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 
And  in  the  stream  the  long-leaved  flowers  weep, 
And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy  hangs  in  sleep." 

To  those  enchanted  islands  and  that  summer  sea, 
It  .lot  this  river  of  unknown  source  the  winding 
avenue  ?  Through  its  silence,  ever  silenter — along 
the  peaceful  waving  of  its  palms — azure-arched  and 
lotus-shored,  leads  it  not  backward  to  that  dream? 


118  NILE    NOTES. 

Yes — the  Howadji  felt  it.  The  day  whispered  it 
at  noon.  The  palms  at  sunset  waved  it  from  the 
shore.  The  stars  burning  ever  brighter  with  the 
deepening  south,  breathed  it  with  their  greater 
beauty  all  night  long,  "  Mild-eyed,  melancholy" 
were  the  men.  But  along  the  shores  of  this  laby- 
rinth, which  we  so  dreamily  tread,  are  stations  posted, 
to  give  exquisite  earnest  of  our  bourne.  And  here 
are  maidens,  not  men,  vowed  to  that  fair  forgetful 
ness  of  yesterday  and  to-morrow  which  is  the  golden 
garland  of  to-day. 

These  azure  airs,  soft  and  voluptuous,  are  they 
not  those  that  blew  beyond  the  domain  of  con- 
science— remote  region  of  which  Elia  dreamed  ?  Is 
not  the  Bishop  of  that  diocese  unmitred  here?  For 
the  nonce  I  renounce  my  fealty,  and  air  myself  be- 
yond those  limits  :  and  when  I  return,  if  mortal  may 
return  from  the  Lotus  islands,  and  from  streams  en- 
chanted, that  good  Bishop  shall  only  lightly  touch 
me  with  his  crosier  for  the  sake  of  bright  Kushuk 
Arnem,  and  the  still-eyed  Xenobi. 

Did  you  sup  at  the  Barmecide's  in  Bagdad,  with 
Shacabac  and  myself,  that  Arabian  night?  Well, 
the  Ghazeeyah  Kushuk  Arnem,  a  girl  of  Palestine, 
claims  descent  from  him.  Or  did  you  assist  at  He- 
rodias's  dancing  before  the  royal  Herod?  Well,  the 
Ghazeeyah  Kushuk  Arnem  dances  as  Herodia' 


PAIR    FRAILTY.  119 

danced.  Or  in  those  Pharaoh  days,  something 
musty  now,  did  you  frequent  the  court  balls? 
Well,  this  is  the  same  dancing ;  and  needless  was  it 
to  have  lived  so  Jong  ago,  for  here  you  have  the 
same  delight  in  Kushuk  Arnem.  Or,  seated  under 
olive-trees,  in  stately  Spain,  with  Don  Quixote  de 
la  Mancha,  were  your  eyes  enamored  of  the  Fan- 
dango ?  That  was  well,  but  January  is  not  June  in 
Spain,  and  in  Esne  the  Howadji  saw  Kushuk  Arnem, 
and  the  gracious  Ghazeeyah's  dance  was  the  model 
of  the  Spanish. 

For  the  Egyptian  dancing-girls  are  of  a  distinct 
race,  and  of  an  unknown  antiquity.  The  Egyptian 
gipsies,  but  not  unanimously,  claim  the  same  Barme- 
cidian  descent,  and  the  Ghawazee,  or  dancing-girls, 
each  one  of  which  is  termed  Ghazeeyah,  wear  divers 
adornments,  like  those  of  the  gipsies.  They  speak 
the  language  and  profess  the  faith  of  the  Egyptians 
— nay,  like  Hadji  Hamed,  the  long  cook  of  the  Ibis, 
they  perform  the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca  for  the  solace 
of  their  own  souls  and  bodies,  or  those  of  some  ac- 
companying ascetic.  The  race  of  Ghawazee  is  kept 
distinct.  They  marry  among  themselves,  or  some 
Ghazeeyah,  weary  of  those  gunny  slopes,  fuori  Ic 
mure  of  conscience,  wondering  haply  whither  they 
do  slope,  retreats  into  the  religious  retirement  of  the 
hareem.  When  she  has  made  a  vow  of  repentance. 


120  NILE    NOTES, 

the  respectable  husband  is  not  considered  disgraced 
by  the  connection. 

For  the  profession  of  the  Ghawazee  is  dancing  ed 
altri  generi.  They  are  migratory,  moving  from  town 
to  town  with  tents,  slaves,  and  cattle,  raising  readily 
their  homely  home,  and  striking  it  as  speedily.  In 
the  large  cities,  they  inhabit  a  distinct  quarter  of 
the  region  especially  consecrated  to  pleasure.  In 
villages,  they  sojourn  upon  the  outskirts.  At  all 
fairs,  they  are  the  fairest  and  most  fascinating.  But 
they  mostly  affect  religious  festivals — the  going  out 
to  tombs  in  the  desert,  a  few  miles  from  the  cities. 
For,  on  the  natal  days  of  saints  inhabiting  those 
tombs,  a  religious  spree  takes  place  upon  the  spot, 
and  scenes  are  presented  to  the  contemplative  eye, 
not  unlike  those  of  Methodist  camp-meetings.  At 
such  times  and  places  they  are  present  "  by  thou- 
sands, by  millions,"  cried  the  unmathematical  Com- 
mander, ecstatic  with  his  theme,  but  again  without 
the  golden  sleeve. 

In  golden  sleeves  alone,  O  Commander,  is  dignity 
and  wisdom. 

I  said  it  was  a  sect  vowed  to  pleasure.  From 
earliest  youth,  they  are  educated  to  their  profession. 
They  do  not  marry  until  they  have  commenced  a 
public  career.  Then  the  husband  is  the  grand  Vi- 
zier and  Kapellmeister  of  his  wife's  court. 


FAIR    FRAILTY.  12J 

Let  the  moralizing  mind  reflect  here,  that  the 
pursuit  of  pleasure  is  an  hereditary  tenet,  dear  to 
the  husband  as  to  the  wife,  who  can  not  be  false, 
because  there  is  no  such  thing  as  faithfulness.  And 
let  the  Moral  Reform  Society  carefully  avoid  judg- 
ing this  frailty  on  principle ;  for  in  tribes,  traditions 
of  usage  become  principle,  by  the  vice  of  enlight- 
ened lands,  where  it  is  a  very  sorrowful  and  shame- 
ful thing,  bred  in  deceit  and  ending  in  despair.  In 
Europe,  society  squeezes  women  into  this  vortex. 
Then  it  is  a  mere  pis-aller  for  existence,  and  loath- 
some much  more  to  the  victims  themselves  than  to 
others.  In  America,  a  fair  preludes  the  foul.  Se- 
duction smoothes  the  slopes  of  the  pit,  although 
once  in,  society  here,  as  there,  seals  inexorably  the 
doom  of  the  fallen.  For  the  Ghazeeyah  who  turns 
from  her  ways,  there  is  the  equality  with  other 
wives,  and  no  taunting  for  the  past.  For  the 
woman  who  once  falls  in  England  or  America,  there 
is  no  resurrection  to  sympathy  and  regard.  The 
world,  being  without  sin,  casts  endless  paving- 
stones,  until  hope,  heart,  and  life  are  quite  crushed 
out. 

Moralizing  at  Esne ! 

Although  the  Ghawazee,  when  they  marry  out 
of  the  tribe,  do  not  dishonor  their  husbands  in  pub- 
lic estimation,  they  are  by  no  means  held  honorablo 
6 


122  NILE    NOTES. 

while  they  practice  their  profession.  This  is  for 
many  reasons.  But  let  no  moral  reformer  flatter 
himself  upon  the  moral  sense  of  the  East.  "  No," 
said  the  Golden-sleeve,  "  I  wouldn't  trust  my  own 
mother."  The  Ghawazee  are  not  honorable,  because 
being,  as  Mr.  Lane  says,  the  most  beautiful  of  Egyp- 
tian women,  they  show  to  the  sun,  moon,  stars,  and 
all  human  eyes,  their  unveiled  faces.  Then  they 
receive  men  into  their  own  apartments — let  us  not 
desecrate  the  sacred  name  of  hareem.  And  they 
dance  unveiled  in  public,  and  if  you  may  believe  the 
shuddering  scandal  of  the  saints  at  Cairo,  each  of 
whom  has  a  score  of  women  to  dance  for  him  alone, 
they  adorn  with  nude  grace  the  midnight  revels  of 
the  Cairene  rakes. 

Mehemet  Ali's  mercury  of  virtue  rose  in  his  im- 
potent age  to  such  a  height  of  heat,  that  he  ban- 
ished all  the  Cairene  Ghawazee  to  Esne,  which 
sounded  morally,  until  the  curious  discovered  that 
Esne  was  the  favorite  river  retreat  of  the  Pacha ;  and 
the  moment  they  disappeared  from  Cairo,  they  were 
replaced  by  boys  dressed  like  women,  who  danced 
as  the  Ghawazee  danced,  and  imitated  their  costume, 
and  all  the  womanliness  of  a  woman,  growing  their 
hair,  veiling  their  faces,  kohling  their  eyelashes, 
hennaing  their  finger  and  toe-nails. 

And   there  was  also  another  set  of  boy-dancers. 


PAIR    FRAILTY.  123 

called  Gink,  into  the  melancholy  mystery  of  which 
name  the  discreet  and  virtuous  refrain  from  prying. 
The  Howadji,  too,  is  Herodotean  for  the  nonce,  and 
"  thinks  it  better  it  should  not  be  mentioned." 


XVIII. 

FAIR  F1UILTY— CONTINUED, 

AND  so  frailty  was  all  boated  up  the  Nile  to  Esne  ? 
Not  quite,  and  even  if  it  had  been,  Abbas  Pacha, 
grandson  of  Mehemet  Ali,  and  at  the  request  of 
the  old  Pacha's  daughter,  has  boated  it  all  back 
again ;  Abbas  Pacha,  heritor  of  the  shreds  and 
patches  of  the  Pharaohs'  throne,  and  the  Ptolemies', 
and  the  Cleopatras'.  He  did  well  to  honor  the 
Ghawazee  by  his  permission  of  return,  for  what 
was  the  swart  queen  but  a  glorious  Ghazeeyah  ? 
Ask  Mark  Antony  and  Julius  Cesar.  Nor  shall 
Rhodopis  be  forgotten,  centuries  older  than  Cleo- 
patra, supposed  to  be  the  builder  of  one  of  the 
f  Pyramids,  and  of  wide  Grecian  fame. 

Herodotus  tells  her  story.     She  was  a  Thracian, 

|   and  fellow-servant  of  Esop.     Xanthus  the  Samian 

'  brought  her  to  Egypt,   and  Charaxus,  brother  of 

Sappho,   ransomed   her,  for  which   service,  when 

Charaxus  returned,  Sappho  grievously  gibed  him  in 

an  ode.  Rhodopis  became  very  rich  and  very  famous 


FAIR    FRAILTY.  125 

and  sent  gifts  to  Delphi.  "  And  now,"  says  our 
testy  and  garrulous  old  guide,  as  if  to  wash  his 
hands  of  her  iniquity,  "  I  have  done  speaking  of 
Rhodopis." 

Even  grandfather  Mehemet  did  not  boat  all  the 
frailty  up  the  Nile.  That  would  have  been,  if  the 
beautiful  Ghazeeyah  had  been  the  sole  Egyptian 
sinner.  But  this  especial  sin  pays  a  tenth  of  the 
whole  tax  of  Egypt,  and  the  Ghawazee  are  but  the 
most  graceful  groups  of  Magdalens,  not  at  all  the 
crowd.  The  courtesans  who  went  with  veiled 
faces  discreetly,  who  were  neither  handsome,  nor  of 
any  endowment  of  grace  or  charm,  to  draw  the 
general  eye ; — widows  and  wives,  who,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  their  lords,  mellowed  their  morals  for 
errant  cavaliers; — the  dead-weighted,  sensual,  un- 
graceful, inexcusable,  and  disgusting,  mass  remained, 
and  flourished  more  luxuriantly. 

The  solidest  sin  always  does  remain  ; — the  houris 
as  more  aerial,  are  blown  away,  the  sadder  sinners 
cling.  Law  and  propriety  yearly  pour  away  into 
perdition  a  flowing  surface  of  addled  virtue,  vice- 
stained,  and  a  small  portion  of  veritable  vice.  But 
the  great,  old,  solid  sin,  sticks  steadfastly,  like  the 
Jump  of  ambergris  in  the  Sultan's  cup,  flavoring  the 
whole  draught.  For  not  even  the  friend  of  the 
warm  slippers  and  rolling-stone  theory  can  suppose 


12G  NILE    NOTES. 

that  the  Muslim  are  a  continent  race,  or  that  Me- 
hernet  AH  was  Simeon  Stylites,  because  he  ex 
ported  the  dancing-girls. 

Hear  what  Abu  Taib  said  in  the  gardens  of  Shu 
bra: 

Once  there  was  a  Pacha,  who,  after  drinking 
much  wine  all  his  days,  lost  his  taste,  and  fell  in 
danger  of  his  life  if  he  drank  of  it  any  more.  And 
the  Pacha  ordered  all  the  wine  in  the  country  to  be 
cast  into  the  river.  And  the  fair  fountains  that 
flowed  sweet  wine  of  exquisite  exhilaration  before 
the  mosques,  and  upon  the  public  place,  were  seized 
and  utterly  dried  up.  But  the  loathsome,  stag- 
nant tanks,  and  ditches  of  beastly  drunkenness  that 
festered  concealed  behind  white  walls,  were  un- 
touched, and  flowed  poison.  And  the  Pacha  heard 
what  had  been  done,  and  said,  it  was  well.  And 
far  lands  heard  of  the  same  thing,  and  said,  "Lo!  a 
great  prince,  who  removes  sores  from  his  inherit- 
ance, and  casts  out  vice  from  his  dominions." 

There  are  English  poets  who  celebrate  the  pleas- 
ant position  of  the  eastern  woman,  and  it  is  rather 
the  western  fashion  of  the  moment,  to  fancy  them 
not  so  very  miserably  situated.  But  the  idea  of 
woman  disappears  entirely  from  your  mind  in  the 
East,  except  as  an  exquisite  and  fascinating  toy. 
The  women  suggest  houris,  perhaps,  but  never  an- 


FAIR    FRAILTY.  .127 

gels.  Devils,  possibly,  but  never  friends.  And  now, 
Pacha,  as  we  stroll  slowly  by  starlight  under  the 
lamps,  by  the  mud  cabins  round  which  the  Fellaheen, 
or  peasants,  sit,  and  their  fierce  dogs  bark,  and  see  the 
twin  tombs  of  the  shekhs  gleaming  white  through  the 
twilight,  while  we  ramble  toward  the  bower  of 
Kushuk  Arnem,  and  the  still-eyed  Xenobi,  tell  me 
truly,  by  the  sworded  Orion  above  us,  if  you  cherish 
large  faith  in  the  virtue  of  men,  who,  of  a  voluptu- 
ons  climate,  born  and  nursed,  shut  up  dozens  of  the 
most  enticing  women  in  the  strict  and  sacred  seclu- 
sion of  the  hareem,  and  keep  them  there  without 
knowledge,  without  ambition — petted  girls  with  the 
proud  passions  of  Southern  women,  seeing  him  only 
of  men,  jealous  of  each  other,  jealous  of  them- 
selves, the  slaves  of  his  whims,  tender  or  terrible, 
looking  to  him  for  their  sole  excitement,  and  that 
solely  sensual — rarely  tasting  the  bliss  of  becoming 
a,  mother,  and  taught  to  stimulate,  in  indescribable 
ways,  the  palling  and  flagging  passions  of  their 
Deeper. 

Individually,  I  lay  no  great  stress  on  the  objec- 
tions of  such  gentry  to  the  unveiled  dancing  of 
beautiful  women,  or  to  their  pleasurable  pursuit  of 
pleasure  ;  nor  do  I  find  much  morality  in  it.  I  am 
glad  to  grant  the  oriental  great  virtue ;  and  do  not 
wish  to  whine  at  his  social  and  national  differences 


128  NILE    NOTES. 

from  the  West.  At  Alexandria,  let  the  West  fade 
from  your  horizon,  and  you  will  sail  fascinated  for- 
ever. This  Howadji  holds  that  the  Ghawazee  are 
the  true  philosophers  and  moralists  of  the  East, 
and  that  the  hareem  and  polygamy,  in  general,  are 
without  defence,  viewed  morally.  Viewed  pictur- 
esquely, under  palms,  with  delicious  eyes  melting 
at  lattices,  they  are  highly  to  be  favored  and  encour- 
aged by  all  poets  arid  disciples  of  Epicurus. 

Which,  as  you  know  as  well  as  I,  we  will  not 
here  discuss.  But,  as  I  am  out  of  breath,  toiling 
up  that  steep  sentence  of  the  hareem,  while  we 
more  leisurely  climb  the  last  dust  heap  toward  that 
bower,  the  sole  white  wall  of  the  village  (how  Sa- 
tan loves  these  dear  deceits,  as  excellent  Dr.  Bun- 
yan  Cheever  would  phrase  it),  soothe  me  sooth ly 
with  those  limpid  lines  of  Mr.  Milnes.  who  holds 
strongly  to  the  high  human  and  refining  influence 
of  the  hareem.  Does  Young  England  wish  to  en 
graft  polygamy,  among  the  other  patriarchal  bene- 
fits, upon  stout  old  England? 

"  Thus  in  the  ever-closed  hareem, 
As  in  the  open  Western  home, 
Sheds  womanhood  her  starry  gleam, 
Over  our  being's  busy  foam. 

Through  latitudes  of  varying  faith, 
Thus  trace  we  still  her  mission  sure, 

To  lighten  life,  to  sweeten  death  ; 
And  all  for  others  to  endure." 


PAIR    FRAILTY.  129 

Every  toad  carries  a  diamond  in  its  head,  say 
Hope  and  the  Ideal.  But  in  any  known  toad  was  it 
ever  found  ?  retorted  the  Howadji,  cutting  adrift 

his  western  morals. 
6» 


XIX. 

KUSHUK    ARNEM. 

THE  Howa.lji  entered  the  bower  of  the  Ghazee- 
yah.  A  damsel  admitted  us  at  the  gate,  closely 
veiled,  as  if  women's  faces  were  to  be  seen  no  more 
forever.  Across  a  clean  little  court,  up  stone  steps 
that  once  were  steadier,  and  we  emerged  upon  a 
small,  inclosed  stone  terrace,  the  sky-vaulted  ante- 
chamber of  that  bower.  Through  a  little  door, 
that  made  us  stoop  to  enter,  we  passed  into  the  pe- 
culiar retreat  of  the  Ghazeeyah.  It  was  a  small, 
white,  oblong  room,  with  but  one  window,  opposite 
the  door,  and  that  closed.  On  three  sides  there 
were  small  holes  to  admit  light  as  in  dungeons,  but 
too  lofty  for  the  eye  to  look  through,  like  the  oriel 
windows  of  sacristies.  Under  these  openings  were 
small  glass  vases  holding  oil,  on  which  floated  wicks. 
These  were  the  means  of  illumination. 

A  divan  of  honor  filled  the  end  of  the  room — on 
the  side  was  another,  less  honorable,  as  is  usual  in 
all  Egyptian  houses — on  the  floor  a  carpet,  partly 


RUSH  UK    AENEM.  131 

covering  it.  A  straw  matting  extended  beyond  the 
carpet  toward  the  door;  and  between  the  matting 
and  the  door  was  a  bare  space  of  stone  floor,  where- 
on to  shed  the  slippers. 

Hadji  Hamed,  the  long  cook,  had  been  ill ;  but 
hearing  of  music,  and  dancing,  and  Ghawazee,  he 
had  turned  out  for  the  nonce,  and  accompanied  us 
to  the  house,  not  all  unmindful,  possibly,  of  the 
delectations  of  the  Mecca  pilgrimage.  He  stood 
upon  the  stone  terrace  afterward,  looking  in  with 
huge  delight.  The  solemn,  long,  tomb-pilgrim! 
The  merriest  lunges  of  life  were  not  lost  upon  him, 
notwithstanding. 

The  Howadji  seated  themselves  orientally  upon 
the  divan  of  honor.  To  sit,  as  Westerns  sit,  is  im- 
possible upon  a  divan.  There  is  some  mysterious 
necessity  for  crossing  the  legs,  and  this  Howadji 
never  sees  a  tailor  now  in  lands  civilized,  but  the 
dimness  of  Eastern  rooms  and  bazaars,  the  flowing- 
ness  of  robe,  and  the  coiled  splendor  of  the  turban, 
and  a  world  reclining  leisurely  at  ease,  rise  distinct 
and  dear  in  his  mind,  like  that  Sicilian  mirage  seen 
on  divine  days  from  Naples,  but  fleet  as  fair.  To 
most  men,  a  tailor  is  the  most  unsuggestive  of  mor- 
tals. To  the  remembering  Howadji,  he  sits  a  poet. 

The  chibouque,  and  nargileh,  and  coffee,  belong 
to  the  divan,  as  the  parts  of  harmony  to  each  other 


132  NILE    NOTES. 

I  seized  the  flowing  tube  of  a  brilliant  amber-hued 
nurgileh,  such  as  Hafiz  might  have  smoked,  and 
prayed  Isis  that  some  stray  Persian  might  chance 
along  to  complete  our  company.  The  Pacha  inhaled, 
at  times,  a  more  sedate  nargileh ;  at  times,  the  chi- 
bouque of  the  Commander,  who  reclined  upon  the 
divan  below. 

A.  tall  Egyptian  female,  filially  related,  I  am  sure, 
to  a  gentle  giraffe  who  had  been  indiscreet  with  a 
hippopotamus,  moved  heavily  about,  lighting  the 
lamps,  and  looking  as  if  her  bright  eyes  were  feeding 
upon  the  flame,  as  the  giraffes  might  browse  upon 
lofty  autumn  leaves.  There  was  something  awful 
in  this  figure.  She  was  the  type  of  those  tall,  angu- 
lar, Chinese-eyed,  semi-smiling,  wholly-homely,  and 
bewitched  beings,  who  sit  in  eternal  profile  in  the 
sculptures  of  the  temples.  She  was  mystic,  like  the 
cow-horned  Isis.  I  gradually  feared  that  she  had 
come  off  the  wall  of  a  tomb,  probably  in  Thebes 
hard  by,  and  that  our  Ghawazee  delights  would  end 
in  a  sudden  embalming,  and  laying  away  in  the 
bowels  of  the  hills,  with  a  perpetual  prospect  of  her 
upon  the  walls. 

Avaunt,  spectre !  The  fay  approaches,  and 
Kushuk  Arnem  entered  her  bower.  A  bud  no 
longer,  yet  a  flower  not  too  fully  blown.  Large, 
'aughing  eyes,  red,  pulpy  lips,  white  teeth,  arching 


KUSHUK    ARNEM. 

nose,  generous-featured,  lazy,  carelessly  self-pos- 
sessed, she  came  dancing  in,  addressing  the  Howadji 
in  Arabic — words  whose  honey  they  would  not  have 
distilled  through  interpretation.  Be  content  with 
the  aroma  of  sound,  if  you  can  not  catch  the  flavor 
of  sense — and  flavor  can  you  never  have  through 
another  mouth.  Smiling  and  pantomime  were  our 
talking,  and  one  choice  Italian  word  she  knew — 
buono.  Ah !  how  much  was  buono  that  choice 
evening.  Eyes,  lips,  hair,  form,  dress,  every  thing 
that  the  strangers  had  or  wore,  was  endlessly 
buono.  Dancing,  singing,  smoking,  coffee — buono, 
buono,  buonissimo  !  How  much  work  one  word  will 
do! 

The  Ghazeeyah  entered — not  mazed  in  that  azure 
mist  of  gauze  and  muslin,  wherein  Cerito  floats  fas- 
cinating across  the  scene  ;  nor  in  the  peacock  plu- 
mage of  sprightly  Lucille  Grrahn  ;  nor  yet  in  that 
June  cloudiness  of  aery  apparel  which  Carlotta 
affects ;  nor  in  that  sumptuous  Spanishness  of  dark 
drapery  wherein  Fanny  is  most  Fanny. 

The  glory  of  a  butterfly  is  the  starred  brilliance 
of  its  wings.  There  are  who  declare  that  dress 
is  divine — who  aver  that  an  untoileted  woman  is 
not  wholly  a  woman,  and  that  you  may  as  well 
paint  a  saint  without  his  halo,  as  describe  a  woman 
without  detailing  her  dress  Therefore,  while  the 


1JH  NILE    NOTES. 

coarser  sex  veils  longing  eyes,  will  we  tell  the  story 
of  the  Uhazeeyah's  apparel. 

Yellow  morocco  slippers  hid  her  feet,  rosy  and 
round.  Over  these  brooded  a  bewildering  fullness 
of  rainbow  silk.  Turkish  trowsers  we  call  them, 
but  they  are  shintyan  in  Arabic.  Like  the  sleeve 
of  a  clergyman's  gown,  the  lower  end  is  gathered 
somewhere,  and  the  fullness  gracefully  overfalls.  I  say 
rainbow,  although  to  the  Howadji's  little  cognizant 
eye  was  the  shintyan  of  more  than  the  seven  ortho- 
dox colors.  In  the  bower  of  Kushuk — nargileh- 
clouded,  coffee-scented — are  eyes  to  be  strictly 
trusted  ? 

Yet  we  must  not  be  entangled  in  this  bewildering 
brilliance.  A  satin  jacket,  striped  with  velvet  and 
of  open  sleeves,  wherefrom  floated  forth  a  fleecy 
cloud  of  undersleeve,  rolling  adown  the  rosy  arms,  as 
June  clouds  down  the  western  rosiness  of  the  sky, 
inclosed  the  bust.  A  shawl,  twisted  of  many  folds, 
cinctured  the  waist,  confining  the  silken  shintyan. 
A  golden  necklace  of  charms  girdled  the  throat,  and 
the  hair,  much  unctuated,  as  is  the  custom  of  the 
land,  was  adorned  with  a  pendent  fringe  of  black 
silk,  tipped  with  gold,  which  hung  upon  the  neck 
behind. 

Let  us  confess  to  a  dreamy  vaporous  veil,  over- 
spreading, rather  suffusing  with  color,  the  upper 


KUSHUK    ARNEM. 

part  of  the  arms,  and  the  lower  limits  of  the  neck. 
That  rosiness  is  known  as  tob  to  the  Arabians — a 
mystery  whereof  the  merely  masculine  mind  is  not 
cognizant.  Beneath  the  tob,  truth  allows  a  beau- 
tiful bud-burstiness  of  bosom.  Yet  I  swear,  by 
John  Bunyan,  nothing  so  aggravating  as  the  How- 
adji  beholds  in  saloons  unnameable,  nearer  the  Hud- 
son than  the  "Nile.  This  brilliant  cloud,  whose 
spirit  was  Kushuk  Arnem,  our  gay  Ghazeeyah 
gathered  itself  upon  a  divan,  and  inhaled  vigor- 
ously a  nargileh.  A  damsel  in  tob  and  shintyan, 
exhaling  azure  clouds  of  aromatic  smoke,  had  not 
been  displeasing  to  that  Persian  poet,  for  whose 
coming  I  had  prayed  too  late. 

But  more  welcome  than  he,  came  the  still-eyed 
Xenobi.  She  entered  timidly  like  a  bird.  The 
Howadji  had  seen  doves  less  gracefully  sitting  upon 
palm-boughs  in  the  sunset,  than  she  nestled  upon 
the  lower  divan.  A  very  dove  of  a  Ghazeeyah,  a 
quiet  child,  the  last  born  of  Terpsichore.  Blow  it 
from  Mount  Atlas,  a  modest  dancing-girl.  She  sat 
near  this  Howadji,  and  handed  him,  O  Haroun 
Alrashid !  the  tube  of  his  nargileh.  Its  serpentine 
sinuosity  flowed  through  her  fingers,  as  if  the  golden 
gayety  of  her  costume  were  gliding  from  her  alive. 
It  was  an  electric  chain  of  communication,  and 
never  until  some  Xenobi  of  a  houri  hands  the  How- 


136  NILE    NOTES 

adji  the  nargileh  of  Paradise,  will  the  smoke  of  the 
weed  of  Shiraz  float  so  lightly,  or  so  sweetly  taste. 

Xenobi  was  a  mere  bud,  of  most  flexile  and 
graceful  form — ripe  and  round  as  the  spring  fruit 
of  the  tropics.  Kushuk  had  the  air  of  a  woman  for 
whom  no  surprises  survive.  Xenobi  saw,  in  every 
new  day,  a  surprise,  haply,  in  every  Howadji,  a 
lover. 

She  was  more  richly  dressed  than  Kushuk.  There 
were  gay  gold  bands  and  clasps  upon  her  jacket. 
Various  necklaces  of  stamped  gold  and  metallic 
charms  clustered  around  her  neck,  and  upon  her  head 
a  bright  silken  web,  as  if  a  sun-suffused  cloud  were 
lingering  there,  and  dissolving,  showered  down  her 
neck  in  a  golden  rain  of  pendants.  Then,  0  Venus ! 
more  azure  still,  that  delicious  gauziness  of  tob, 
whereof  more  than  to  dream  is  delirium.  Wonder- 
ful the  witchery  of  a  tob !  Nor  can  the  Howadji 
deem  a  maiden  quite  just  to  nature,  who  glides 
through  the  world,  unshintyaned  and  untobed. 

Xenobi  was,  perhaps,  sixteen  years  old,  and  a  fully 
developed  woman.  Kushuk  Arnem,  of  some  half- 
dozen  summers  more.  Kushuk  was  unhennaed. 
But  the  younger,  as  younger  maidens  may,  graced 
herself  with  the  genial  gifts  of  nature.  Her  delicate 
filbert  nails  were  rosily  tinted  on  the  tips  with 
henna,  and  those  pedler  poets,  meeting  her  in  Para- 


KUSHUK    ARSEM.  137 

dise,  would  have  felt  the  reason  of  their  chant — 
"Odors  of  Paradise,  0  flowers  of  the  henna  !"  Bur, 
she  had  no  kohl  upon  the  eyelashes,  nor  like  Fatims, 
of  Damascus,  whom  the  Howadji  later  saw,  were 
her  eye-brows  shaved  and  replaced  by  thick,  black 
arches  of  kohl.  Yet  fascinating  are  the  almond-eyes 
of  Egyptian  women,  bordered  black  with  the  kohl, 
whose  intensity  accords  with  the  sumptuous  passion 
that  mingles  moist  and  languid  with  their  light. 
Eastern  eyes  are  full  of  moonlight.  Eastern  beauty^ 
is  a  dream  of  passionate  possibility,  which  the  How- 
adji would  fain  awaken  by  the  same  spell  with 
which  the  Prince  of  fairy  dissolved  the  enchanted 
sleep  of  the  princess.  Yet  kohl  and  henna  are  only: — N 
beautiful  for  "the  beautiful.  In  a  coffee-shop  at 
Esue,  bold-faced,  among  the  men,  sat  a  coarse  cour- 
tesan sipping  coffee  and  smoking  a  nargileh,  whose 
Kohled  eyebrows  and  eyelashes  made  her  a  houri  of 
hell. 

"  There  is  no  joy  but  calm,"  I  said,  as  the  mo- 
ments, brimmed  with  beauty,  melted  in  the  starlight, 
and  the  small  room  became  a  bower  of  bloom,  and 
a  Persian  garden  of  delight.  We  reclined,  breath- 
ing fragrant  fumes,  and  interchanging,  through  the 
Golden-sleeved,  airy  nothings.  The  Howadji  and 
the  houris  had  little  in  common  but  looks.  Soul- 
less as  Undine,  and  suddenly  risen  from  a  laughing 


138  NILE    NOTES. 

life  in  watery  dellw  of  lotus,  sat  the  houris,  and,  like 
the  mariner,  sea-driven  upon  the  enchanted  isle  of 
Prospero,  sat  the  Howadji,  unknowing  the  graceful 
gossip  of  fairy.  But  there  is  a  fairy  always  folded 
away  in  our  souls,  like  a  bright  butterfly  chrysalized, 
and  sailing  eastward,  layer  after  layer  of  propriety, 
moderation,  deference  to  public  opinion,  safety  of 
sentiment,  and  all  the  thick  crusts  of  compromise 
and  convention  roll  away,  and,  bending  southward  up 
the  Nile,  you  may  feel  that  fairy  fairly  flutter  her 
wings.  And,  if  you  pause  at  Esne,  she  will  fly  out, 
and  lead  you  a  will-o'-the-wisp  dance  across  all  the 
trim  sharp  hedges  of  accustomed  proprieties,  and 
over  the  barren  flats  of  social  decencies.  Dumb  is 
that  fairy,  so  long  has  she  been  secluded,  and  can- 
not say  much  to  her  fellows.  But  she  feels,  and 
sees,  and  enjoys  all  the  more  exquisitely  and  pro- 
foundly for  her  long  sequestration. 

Presently  an  old  woman  came  in  with  a  tar,  a 
kind  of  tambourine,  and  her  husband,  a  grisly  old 
sinner,  with  a  rabab,  or  one-stringed  fiddle.  Old 
Hecate  was  a  gone  Ghazeeyah — a  rose-leaf  utterly 
shrivelled  away  from  rosiness.  No  longer  a  dancer, 
she  made  music  for  dancing.  And  the  husband, 
who  played  for  her  in  her  youth,  now  played  with 
her  in  her  age.  Like  two  old  votaries  who  feel 
when  they  can  no  longer  see,  they  devoted  all  the 


v5 

(Y<^ 
KUSHUK    ARNEM.  139 

force  of  life  remaining  to  the  great  game  of  pleasure, 
whose  born  thralls  they  were. 

There  were  two  tarabukas  and  brass  castanets, 
and  when  the  old  pair  were  seated  upon  the  carpet 
near  the  door,  they  all  smote  their  rude  instruments, 
and  a  wild  clang  raged  through  the  little  chamber. 
Thereto  they  sang.  Strange  sounds — such  music  as 
the  angular,  carved  figures  upon  the  temples  would 
make,  had  they  been  conversing  with  us — sounds 
to  the  ear  like  their  gracelessness  to  the  eye. 

This  was  Egyptian  Polyhymnia  preluding  Terpsi- 
chora. 


XX. 

TERPSICHORE, 

"  The  wind  is  fair, 
The  boat  is  in  the  bay, 
And  the  fair  mermaid  Pilot  calls  away. 7r 

KUSHUK  ARNEM  quaffed  a  goblet  of  hemp  arrack, 
The  beaker  was  passed  to  the  upper  divan,  and  the 
Howadji,  sipping,  found  it  to  smack  of  aniseed.  It 
was  strong  enough  for  the  Pharaohs  to  have  im- 
bibed— even  for  Herod  before  beholding  Herodias  ; 
for  these  dances  are  the  same.  This  dancing  is 
more  ancient  than  Aboo  Sirnbel.  In  the  land  of 
the  Pharaohs,  the  Howadji  saw  the  dancing  they 
saw,  as  uncouth  as  the  temples  they  built.  This 
dancing  is  to  the  ballet  of  civilized  lands,  what  the 
gracelessness  of  Egypt  was  to  the  grace  of  Greece. 
Had  the  angular  figures  of  the  temple  sculptures 
preluded  with  that  music,  they  had  certainly  fol- 
lowed with  this  dancing. 

Kushuk  Arnem  rose  and  loosened  her  shawl 
girdle  in  such  wise,  that  I  feared  she  was  about  to 
shed  the  frivolity  of  dress,  as  Venus  shed  the  sea-- 


TERPSICHORE.  141 

foam,  and  stood  opposite  the  divan,  holding  her 
brass  castanets.  Old  Hecate  beat  the  tar  into  a 
thunderous  roar.  Old  husband  drew  sounds  from 
his  horrible  rabab,  sharper  than  the  sting  of  remorse, 
and  Xenobi  and  the  Giraffe  each  thrummed  a  tara- 
buka  until  I  thought  the  plaster  would  peel  from 
the  wall.  Kushuk  stood  motionless,  while  this  din 
deepened  around  her,  the  arrack  aerializing  her 
feet,  the  Howadji  hoped,  and  not  her  brain.  The 
sharp  surges  of  sound  swept  around  the  room, 
dashing  in  regular  measure  against  her  moveless- 
ness,  until  suddenly  the  whole  surface  of  her  frame 
quivered  in  measure  with  the  music.  Her  hands 
were  raised,  clapping  the  castanets,  and  she  slowly 
turned  upon  herself,  her  right  leg  the  pivot,  mar- 
vellously convulsing  all  the  muscles  of  her  body. 
When  she  had  completed  the  circuit  of  the  spot  on 
which  she  stood,  she  advanced  slowly,  all  the  mus- 
cles jerking  in  time  to  the  music,  and  in  solid,  sub- 
stantial spasms. 

It  was  a  curious  and  wonderful  gymnastic.  There 
was  no  graceful  dancing — once  only  there  was  the 
movement  of  dancing,  when  she  advanced,  throw- 
ing one  leg  before  the  other  as  gipsies  dance.  But 
the  rest  was  most  voluptuous  motion — not  the  lithe 
wooing  of  languid  passion,  but  the  soul  of  passion 
starting  through  every  sense,  and  quivering  in  every 


142  NILE    NOTES. 

limb.      It  was  the  very  intensity  of  motion,  con- 
centrated and  constant.     The  music  still  swelled 
savagely,    in     maddened     monotony    of    measure 
Hecate  and  the  old  husband,  fascinated  with  the 
Ghazeeyah's  fire,  threw  their  hands  and  arms  ex- 
citedly about  their  instruments,  and  an  occasional 
cry  of  enthusiasm  and  satisfaction  burst  from  their 
lips.      Suddenly  stooping,  stik  muscularly  moving, 
Kushuk  fell   upon    her   knees,  and   writhed,  with 
body,  arms,  and  head  upon  the  floor,  still  in  meas- 
ure— still  clanking  the  castanets,  and  arose  in  the 
same  manner.     It  was  profoundly  dramatic.     The 
scenery  of  the  dance  was  like  that  of  a  characteris 
tic  soug.     It  was  a  lyric  of  love,  wrhich  words  can 
not  tell — profound,  oriental,  intense,  and  terrible 
Still  she  retreated,  until  the  constantly  down-slip 
ping  shawl  seemed  only  just  clinging  to  her  hips 
and   making  toe  same  circuit  upon  herself,  she  sa* 
down,  and  after  this  violent  and  extravagant  exer- 
tion was  marbly  cold. 

Then  timid,  but  not  tremulous,  the  young  Xenobi 
arose  bare-footed,  and  danced  the  same  dance — not 
with  the  finished  skill  of  Kushuk,  but  gracefully 
and  well,  and  with  her  eyes  fixed  constantly  upon  the 
elder.  With  the  same  regular  throb  of  the  muscles, 
she  advanced  and  retreated,  and  the  Paradise-pa- 
vilioned prophet  could  not  have  felt  his  heavenly 


TERP8I  CHOKE.  143 


hareem  complete,  had  he  sat  smoking  and  entranced 
with  the  Howadji. 

Form  so  perfect  was  never  yet  carved  m  marble 
— not  the  Venus  is  so  mellowly  moulded.  Her  out- 
line has  not  the  voluptuous  excess  whicji  is  not  too 
much — which  is  not  perceptible  to  mere  criticism, 
and  is  more  a  feeling  flushing  along  the  form,  than 
a  greater  fullness  of  the  form  itself.  The  Greek 
Venus  was  sea-born,  but  our  Egyptian  is  sun-born. 
The  brown  blood  of  the  sun  burned  along  her  veins 
— the  soul  of  the  sun  streamed  shaded  from  her  eyes. 
She  was  still,  almost  statuesquely  still.  When  she 
danced,  it  was  only  stillness  intensely  stirred,  and 
followed  that  of  Kushuk  as  moonlight  succeeds 
sunshine.  As  she  went  on,  Kushuk  gradually  rose  ; 
and,  joining  her,  they  danced  together.  The  Epi- 
cureans of  Cairo,  indeed — the  very  young  priests  of 
Venus,  assemble  the  Ghawazee  in  the  most  secluded 
adyta  of  their  dwellings;  and  there,  eschewing  the 
mystery  of  the  Hintyan,  and  the  gauziness  of  the 
tob,  they  behold  the  unencumbered  beauty  of  these 
beautiful  women.  At  festivals  so  fair,  arrack,  raw 
brandy,  and  "  depraved  human  nature,"  naturally 
improvise  a  ballet  whereupon  the  curtain  here  falls. 

Suddenly,  as  the  clarion  call  awakens  the  long- 
slumbering  spirit  of  the  war-horse,  old  Hecate 
sprang  to  her  feet ;  and,  loosening  her  girdle,  seized 


144  NILE    NOTES. 

the  castanets,  and  with  the  pure  pride  of  power 
advanced  upon  the  floor,  and  danced  incredibly. 
Crouching,  before,  like  a  wasted  old  willow,  that 
merely  shakes  its  drooping  leaves  to  the  tempest — 
she  now  sho^k  her  fibres  with  the  vigor  of  a  nascent 
elm,  and  moved  up  and  down  the  room  with  a  mira- 
culous command  of  her  frame. 

In  Venice,  I  had  heard  a  gray  gondolier,  dwindled 
into  a  ferryman,  awakened  in  a  moonlighted  mid- 
night, as  we  swept  by,  with  singers  chanting  Tasso 
pour  his  swan-song  of  magnificent  memory  into  ths 
quick  ear  of  night. 

In  the  Champs  Elysues,  I  had  heard  a  rheumy- 
eyed  Invalide  cry,  with  the  sonorous  enthusiasm  of 
Austerlitz,  "  Vive  Napoleon !"  as  a  new  Napoleon 
rode  by. 

It  was  the  Indian  summer  goldening  the  white 
winter — the  Zodiacal  light  far  flashing  day  into  the 
twilight.  And  here  was  the  same  in  dead  old 
Egypt — in  a  Ghazeeyah  who  had  brimmed  her 
beaker  with  the  threescore  and  ten  drops  of  life. 
Not  more  strange,  and  unreal,  and  impressive  in 
their  way,,  the  inscrutable  remains  of  Egypt,  sand- 
shrouded,  but  undecayed,  than  in  hers,  this  strange 
spectacle  of  an  efficient  Coryphee  of  seventy. 

Old  Hecate  !  thou  wast  pure  pomegranate  also, 
and  not  banana,  wonder  most  wonderful  of  a)l— 


TERPSICHORE.  145 

words  which  must  remain  hieroglyphics  upon  these 
pages — and  whose  explication  must  be  sought  in 
Egypt,  as  they  must  come  hither  who  would  realize 
the  freshness  of  Karnak. 

Slow,  sweet,  singing  followed.  The  refrain  was 
plaintive,  like  those  of  the  boat  songs — soothing, 
after  the  excitement  of  the  dancing,  as  nursery  lays 
to  children  after  a  tired  day,  "Buono,"  Kushuk 
Arnem  !  last  of  the  Arnems ;  for  so  her  name  signi- 
fied. Was  it  a  remembering  refrain  of  Palestine, 
whose  daughter  you  are?  "  Taib,"  dove  Xenobi ! 
Fated,  shall  I  say,  or  favored?  Pledged  life-long 
to  pleasure!  Who  would  dare  to  be?  Who  but  a 
child  so  careless  would  dream  that  these  placid  rip- 
ples of  youth  will  rock  you  stormless  to  El  Dorado? 

O  Allah !  and  who  cares  ?  Refill  the  amber  nar- 
gileh,  Xenobi — another  fingan  of  mellow  mocha. 
Yet  another  strain  more  stirring.  Hence,  Hecate  ! 
shrivel  into  invisibility  with  the  thundering  tar,  and 
the  old  husband  with  his  diabolical  rabdb.  Waits  not 
the  one-eyed  first  officer  below,  with  a  linen  lantern, 
to  pilot  us  to  the  boat  ?  And  the  beak  of  the  Ibis 
points  it  not  to  Syene,  Nubia,  and  a  world  unknown  ? 

Farewell,  Kushuk  !  Addio,  still-eyed  dove !  Al- 
most thou  persuadest  me  to  pleasure.  O  Wall- 
street,  Wall-street!  because  you  are  virtuous,  shall 
there  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale  ? 


XXI. 

SAKIAS 

WE  departed  at  dawn.  Before  a  gentle  gale  the 
Ibis  fleetly  flew,  in  the  starlight,  serenaded  by  the 
sakias. 

These  endless  sighing  sakias !  There  are  fifty 
thousand  of  them  in  Egypt,  or  were,  when  Grand- 
father Mehemet  was.  They  required  a  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  oxen  to  work  them.  But  the 
murrain  swept  away  the  cattle,  and  now  the  Nile 
shores  are  strewn  with  the  falling  mud  walls  of 
sakias,  ruins  of  the  last  great  Egyptian  reign. 
Like  huge  summer  insects,  they  doze  upon  the 
bank,  droning  a  melancholy,  monotonous  song. 
The  slow,  sad  sound  pervades  the  land — one  calls 
to  another,  and  he  sighs  to  his  neighbor,  and  the 
Nile  is  shored  with  sound  no  less  than  sand.  Their 
chorus  is  the  swan-song  of  Egypt.  For  Egypt  is 
effete.  The  race  is  more  ruined  than  the  temples. 
Nor  shall  there  be  a  resurrection  of  an  exhausted 
people,  until  fading  roses,  buried  in  the  ground, 


SAKIAS.  147 

take  root  again,  or  Memnon  calls  musically  once 
more,  down  the  far  glad  valley  of  the  Nile. 

The  sakia  is  the  great  instrument  of  irrigation. 
It  is  a  rude  contrivance  of  two  perpendicular 
wheels,  turned  by  a  horizontal  cog.  The  outer 
wheel  is  girdled  with  a  string  of  earthen  jars, 
which  descend  with  every  revolution  into  the  pit 
open  to  the  river,  in  which  the  wheel  turns.  As 
the  jars  ascend,  they  empty  themselves  into  a 
trough,  thence  conducted  away,  or  directly  into  a 
channel  of  earth  ;  and  the  water  flowing  into  the 
fields,  by  little  canals,  invests  each  separate  small 
square  patch.  There  are  no  fences,  and  the  valley 
of  the  Nile  is  divided  into  endless  inclosures  by 
these  shallow  canals.  The  surface  of  the  country 
is  regularly  veined,  and  the  larger  channels  are  the 
arteries  fed  by  the  great  sakia  heart.  Overflowing 
or  falling,  the  Nile  is  forever  nourishing  Egypt,  and 
far  forth-looking  from  the  propylons  of  temples, 
you  may  see  the  land  checkered  with  slight  silver 
streaks — tokens  of  its  fealty  and  the  Nile's  devotion. 

The  sakia  is  worked  by  a  pair  of  oxen.  Upon 
the  tongue  of  the  crank  which  they  turn,  sits  a  boy, 
drowsing  and  droning,  and  beating  their  tail-region 
all  day  long.  Nor  is  the  sad  creak  of  the  wheel 
ever  soothed  by  any  unctuous  matter,  which  the 
proprietor  appropriates  to  his  own  proper  person 


148  NILE    NOTES. 

and  which  would  also  destroy  the  cherished  creek 
So  sit  the  boys  along  the  Nile,  among  the  cotton, 
tobacco,  corn,  beans,  or  whatever  other  crop,  and 
by  beating  the  tail-region  of  many  oxen,  cause  the 
melancholy  music  of  the  river.  It  has  infinite 
variety,  but  a  mournful  monotony  of  effect.  Some 
sakias  are  sharp  and  shrill;  they  almost  shriek  in 
the  tranced  stillness.  These  you  may  know  for  the 
youth — these  are  the  gibes  of  greenness.  But^edater 
creaks  follow.  A  plaintive  monotony  of  moan  that 
is  helpless  and  hopeless.  This  is  the  general  sakia 
sigh.  It  is  as  if  the  air  simmered  into  sound  upon 
the  shore.  It  is  the  overtaxed  labor  of  the  land 
complaining,  a  slave's  plaining — low,  and  lorn,  and 
lifeless.  Yet,  as  the  summer  seems  not  truly  sum- 
mer, until  the  locusts  wind  their  dozy  reeds,  so 
Egypt  seems  not  truly  Egypt,  except  when  the 
water-wheels  sadden  the  silence.  It  is  the  audible 
weaving  of  the  spell.  The  stillness  were  not  so 
still  without  it,  nor  the  temples  so  antique,  nor  the 
whole  land  so  solitary  and  dead. 

In  books  I  read  that  it  is  the  Ranz  des  Vaches  of 
the  Fellaheen,  and  that  away  from  the  Nile  they 
sigh  for  the  sakia.  as  it  sighs  with  them  at  home. 
And  truly,  no  picture  of  the  river  would  be  perfect 
that  had  not  the  water-wheels  upon  the  shore. 
They  abound  in  Nubia,  and  are  there  taxed  heavily 


SAKIAS.  149 

— some  seventeen  of  our  dollars,  each  one.  The 
Howadji  wonders  how  such  a  tax  can  be  paid,  and 
the  Nubian  live.  But  if  it  be  not  promptly  render- 
ed the  owner  is  ejected.  He  may  have  as  much 
land  as  he  can  water,  as  much  Arabian  sand  or  Li- 
byan, as  he  can  coax  the  Nile  to  fructify.  And 
there  nature  is  compassionate.  For  out  of  what 
seems  sheer  sand  you  will  see  springing  a  deep- 
green  patch  of  grain. 

In  upper  Egypt  and  Nubia,  the  shadoof  is  sel- 
dom seen.  That  is  a  man-power  sakia,  consisting 
simply  of  buckets  swinging  upon  a  pole,  like  a 
well  bucket,  and  dipped  into  the  river,  and  emptied 
above  by  another,  into  the  channel.  There  are  al- 
ways two  buckets,  and  the  men  stand  opposite,  only 
girded  a  little  about  the  loins,  or  more  frequently, 
not  at  all,  and  plunging  the  bucket  rapidly.  It  is 
exhausting  labor,  and  no  man  is  engaged  more  than 
two  or  three  hours  at  a  time.  If  the  bank  is  very 
high,  there  are  two  or  more  ranges  of  shadoofs,  the 
lower  pouring  into  the  reservoirs  of  the  upper.  The 
shadoofs  abound  in  the  sugar-cane  region  about 
Minyeh.  They  give  a  spectral  life  to  the  shore. 
The  bronze  statues  moving  as  if  by  pulleys,  and 
the  regular  swing  of  the  shadoof.  There  is  no 
creak,  but  silently  in  the  sun  the  poles  swing,  and 
the  naked  laborers  sweat. 


150  *  NILE    NOTES. 

Sakia-spelled  the  Ibis  flew,  and  awakening  one 
midnight,  I  heard  the  murmurous  music  of  distant 
bells  filling  all  the  air.  As  one  on  summer  Sundays 
loiters  in  flowery  fields  suburban,  and  catches  the 
city  chimes  hushed  and  far  away,  so  lingered  and 
listened  the  Howadji  along  the  verge  of  dreaming. 
Has  the  ear  mirages,  mused  he,  like  the  eye? 

He  remembered  the  day,  and  it  was  Sunday — 
Sunday  morning  across  the  sea.  Still  the  clanging 
confusion,  hushed  into  melody,  rang  on.  He  heard 
the  orthodox  sonorousness  of  St.  John's,  the  sweet 
solemnity  of  St.  Paul's,  then  the  petulant  peal  of 
the  dissenting  bells  dashed  in.  But  all  so  sweet 
and  far,  until  the  belfry  of  the  old  Brick  bellowed 
with  joy,  as  if  the  head  of  giant  Despair  were  now 
finally  broken.  Had  Nilus  wreathed  these  brows 
with  magic  lotus  ? 

Now,  mused  the  Howadji,  haply  dreaming  still, 
QOW  contrite  Gotham,  in  its  Sunday  suit  of  sack- 
cloth and  ashes,  hies  humbly  forth  to  repentance 
and  prayer.  Perchance  some  maiden  tarries  that 
her  hair  may  be  fitly  folded,  that  she  may  wait  upon 
the  Lord  en  grande  tenue.  In  godly  Gotham  such 
things  have  been.  Divers  of  its  daughters  once 
tarried  from  the  service  and  sermon  that  a  French 
barber  might  lay  his  hand  upon  their  heads,  before 
the  bishop.  Then,  like  coiffed  cherubim,  they  stole 


SAKIAS.  151 

sweetly  up  the  church-aisle,  well  named  of  grace, 
if  its  God  must  abide  such  worship,  and  were  con- 
firmed— in  what  ?  demanded  the  now  clearly  dream- 
ing Howadji. 

Belfry  of  old  Brick,  clang  not  so  proudly  !  Haply 
the  head  of  the  giant  Despair  is  only  cracked,  not 
yet  broken. 

Still  trembled  the  melodious  murmur  of  bells 
through  the  air,  sweet  as  if  the  bells  rang  of  the 
shining  city,  to  Christian  lingering  on  the  shore.  It 
was  the  marvel  of  many  marvels  of  travel.  The 
dawn  opened  dim  eyes  at  length,  still  dreaming  of 
that  sound,  when  the  golden-sleeved  Commander 
opened  the  blue  door  of  the  cabin,  and  the  Howadji 
then  heard  the  mingled  moaning  of  many  sakias,  but 
the  sweet,  far  bells  no  m  jre. 


XXII. 


"A  motion  from  the  river  won, 
Ridged  the  smooth  level,  bearing  on 
My  shallop  through  the  star-strown  calm, 
Until  another  night  in  night 
I  entered,  from  the  clearer  light, 
Imbowered  vaults  of  pillar'd  Palm." 

HUMBOLDT,  the  only  cosmopolitan  and  a  poet, 
divides  the  earth  by  beauties,  and  celebrates  as 
dearest  to  him,  and  first  fascinating  him  to  travel, 
the  climate  of  palms.  The  palm  is  the  type  of  the 
tropics,  and  when  the  great  Alexander  marched 
triumphing  through  India,  some  Hindoo,  suspecting 
the  sweetest  secret  of  Brama,  distilled  a  wine  from 
the  palm,  the  glorious  fantasy  of  whose  intoxication 
no  poet  records. 

I  knew  a  palm-tree  upon  Capri.  It  stood  in  select 
society  of  shining  fig-leaves  and  lustrous  oleanders; 
it  overhung  the  balcony,  and  so  looked,  far 
overleaning,  down  upon  the  blue  Mediterranean. 
Through  the  dream-mists  of  southern  Italian  noons, 
it  looked  up  the  broad  bay  of  Naples  and  saw 


UNDER    THE    PALMS.  153 

vague  Vesuvius  melting  away  ;  or  at  sunset  the  isles 
of  the  Syrens,  whereon  they  singing  sat,  and  wooed 
Ulysses  as  he  sailed ;  or  in  the  full  May  moonlight 
the  oranges  of  Sorrento  shone  across  it,  great  and 
golden,  permanent  planets  of  that  delicious  dark. 
And  from  the  Sorrento  where  Tasso  was  born,  it 
looked  across  to  pleasant  Posylippo,  where  Virgil  is 
buried,  and  to  stately  Ischia.  The  palm  of  Capri 
saw  all  that  was  fairest  and  most  famous  in  the  bay 
of  Naples. 

A  wandering  poet,  whom  I  knew,  sang  a  sweet 
song  to  the  palm,  as  he  dreamed  in  the  moonlight 
upon  that  balcony.  But  it  was  only  the  freema- 
sonry of  sympathy.  It  was  only  syllabled  moon- 
shine. For  the  palm  was  a  poet  too,  and  all  palms 
are  poets. 

Yet  when  I  asked  the  bard  what  the  palm-tree 
sang  in  its  melancholy  measures  of  waving,  he  told 
me  that  not  Vesuvius,  nor  the  Syrens,  nor  Sorrento, 
nor  Tasso,  nor  Virgil,  the  stately  Ischia,  nor  all  the 
broad,  blue  beauty  of  Naples  bay,  was  the  theme  of 
that  singing.  But  partly  it  sang  of  a  river  forever 
flowing,  and  of  cloudless  skies,  and  green  fields  that 
never  faded,  and  the  mournful  music  of  water-wheels 
and  the  wild  monotony  of  a  tropical  life — and 
partly  of  the  yellow  silence  of  the  desert,  and  of 

drear  solitudes  inaccessible,  and  of  wandering  cara- 

7* 


154  NILE    NOTES. 

vans,  and  lonely  men.  Then  of  gardens  overhang- 
ing rivers,  that  roll  gorgeous-shored  through  west- 
ern fancies  ;  of  gardens  in  Bagdad  watered  by  the 
Euphrates  and  the  Tigris,  whereof  it  was  the  fringe 
and  darling  ornament ;  of  oases  in  those  sere,  sad 
deserts  where  it  overfountained  fountains,  and  every 
leaf  was  blessed.  More  than  all,  of  the  great  Orient 
universally,  where  no  tree  was  so  abundant,  so  loved 
and  so  beautiful. 

When  I  lay  under  that  palm-tree  in  Capri  in  the 
May  moonlight,  my  ears  were  opened,  and  I  heard 
all  that  the  poet  told  me  of  its  song. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  I  came  from  Rome,  where 
the  holy  week  comes  into  the  year  as  Christ  en- 
tered Jerusalem,  over  palms.  For  in  the  magnifi- 
cence of  St.  Peter's,  all  the  pomp  of  the  most 
pompous  of  human  institutions  is  on  one  day  cha- 
ractered by  the  palm.  The  Pope,  borne  upon  his 
throne,  as  is  no  other  monarch — with  wide-wav- 
ing flabella  attendant,  moves,  blessing  the  crowd, 
through  the  great  nave.  All  the  red-legged  cardi 
nals  follow,  each  of  whose  dresses  would  build  a 
chapel,  so  costly  are  they,  and  the  crimson-crowned 
Greek  patriarch  with  long  silken  black  beard,  and 
the  crew  of  motley  which  the  Roman  clergy  is, 
crown  after  in  shining  splendor. 

No  ceremony  of  imperial  Rome  had  been  more 


UNDEK    THE     PALMS.  155 

imposing,  and  never  witnessed  in  a  temple  more  im- 
perial. But  pope,  patriarch,  cardinals,  bishops, 
ambassadors,  and  all  the  lesser  glories,  bore  palm- 
branches  in  their  hands.  Not  veritable  palm 
branches,  but  their  imitation  in  turned  yellow 
wood ;  and  all  through  Rome  that  day,  the  palm 
branch  was  waving  and  hanging.  Who  could  not 
see  its  beauties,  even  in  the  turned  yellow  wood  ? 
Who  did  not  feel  it  was  a  sacred  tree  as  well  as 
romantic  ? 

For  palm  branches  were  strewn  before  Jesus  as 
he  rode  into  Jerusalem,  and  forever,  since,  the  palm 
symbolizes  peace.  Wherever  a  grove  of  palms 
waves  in  the  low  moonlight  or  starlight  wind,  it  is 
the  celestial  choir  chanting  "peace  on  earth,  good- 
will to  men."  Therefore  is  it  the  foliage  of  the  old 
religious  pictures.  Mary  sits  under  a  palm,  and  the 
saints  converse  under  palms,  and  the  prophets 
prophecy  in  their  shade,  and  cherubs  float  with 
jalms  over  the  martyr's  agony.  Nor  among  pic- 
tures is  there  any  more  beautiful  than  Correggio's 
Flight  into  Egypt,  wherein  the  golden-haired  angels 
put  aside  the  palm  branches,  and  smile  sunnily 
through,  upon  the  lovely  mother  and  the  lovely  child. 

The  palm  is  the  chief  tree  in  religious  remem- 
brance and  religious  art.  It  is  the  chief  tree  in 
romance  and  poetry.  But  its  sentiment  is  always 


156  NILE    NOTES. 

eastern,  and  it  always  yearns  for  the  East.  In  the 
West  it  is  an  exile,  and  pines  in  the  most  sheltered 
gardens.  Among  western  growths  in  the  western 
air,  it  is  as  unsphered  as  Hafiz  in  a  temperance 
society.  Yet  of  all  western  shores  it  is  happiest 
in  Sicily ;  for  Sicily  is  only  a  bit  of  Africa  drifted 
westward.  There  is  a  soft  southern  strain  in  the 
Sicilian  skies,  and  the  palms  drink  its  sunshine  like 
dew.  Upon  the  tropical  plain  behind  Palermo, 
among  the  sun-sucking  aloes,  and  the  thick,  shape- 
less cactuses,  like  elephants  and  rhinoceroses  en- 
chanted into  foliage,  it  grows  ever  gladly.  For  the 
aloe  is  of  the  East,  and  the  prickly  pear,  and  upon 
that  plain  the  Saracens  have  been,  and  the  palm  sees 
the  Arabian  arch,  and  the  oriental  sign  manual 
stamped  upon  the  land. 

In  the  Villa  Serra  di  Falco,  within  sound  of  the 
vespers  of  Palermo,  there  is  a  palm  beautiful  to 
behold.  It  is  like  a  Georgian  slave  in  a  Pacha's 
hareem.  Softly  shielded  from  eager  winds,  gently 
throned  upon  a  slope  of  richest  green,  fringed  with 
brilliant  and  fragrant  flowers,  it  stands  separate  and 
peculiar  in  the  odorous  garden  air.  Yet  it  droops 
and  saddens,  and  bears  no  fruit.  Vain  is  the  ex- 
quisite environment  of  foreign  fancies.  The  poor 
slave  has  no  choice  but  life.  Care  too  tender  will 
not  suffer  it  to  die,  pride  and  admiration  surround 


UNDER    THE    PALMS.  157 

it  with  the  best  beauties,  and  feed  it  upon  the 
warmest  sun.  But  I  heard  it  sigh  as  I  passed.  A 
wind  blew  warm  from  the  East,  and  it  lifted  its 
arms  hopelessly,  and  when  the  wind,  love-laden 
with  most  subtle  sweetness,  lingered,  loth  to  fly, 
the  palm  stood  motionless  upon  its  little  green 
mound,  and  the  flowers  were  so  fresh  and  fair,  and 
the  leaves  of  the  trees  so  deeply  hued,  and  the  na- 
tive fruit  so  golden  and  glad  upon  the  boughs, 
that  the  still,  warm,  garden  air,  seemed  only  the 
silent,  voluptuous  sadness  of  the  tree ;  and  had  I 
been  a  poet  my  heart  would  have  melted  in  song 
for  the  proud,  pining  palm. 

But  the  palms  are  not  only  poets  in  the  West, 
they  are  prophets  as  well.  They  are  like  heralds 
sent  forth  upon  the  farthest  points  to  celebrate  to 
the  traveler  the  glories  they  foreshow.  Like  spring 
birds  they  sing  a  summer  unfading,  and  climes 
where  Time  wears  the  year  as  a  queen  a  rosary  of 
diamonds.  The  mariner,  eastward-sailing,  hears 
tidings  from  the  chance  palms  that  hang  along  the 
southern  Italian  shore.  They  call  out  to  him  across 
the  gleaming  calm  of  a  Mediterranean  noon:  "Thou 
happy  mariner,  our  souls  sail  with  thee." 

The  first  palm  undoes  the  West.  The  Queen  of 
Sheba  and  the  Princess  Shemselnihar  look  then 
upon  the  most  Solomon  of  Howadjis.  So  far  the 


158  NILE    NOTEST 

Orient  has  come — not  in  great  glory,  not  handsome- 
ly, but  as  Rome  came  to  Britain  in  Roman  soldiers. 
The  crown  of  imperial  glory  glittered  yet  and  only 
upon  the  seven  hills,  but  a  single  ray  had  pene- 
trated the  northern  night — and  what  the  golden 
house  of  Nero  was  to  a  Briton  contemplating  a 
Roman  soldier,  is  the  East  to  the  Howadji  first  be- 
holding a  palm. 

At  Alexandria  you  are  among  them.  Do  not  de- 
cry Alexandria  as  all  Howadji  do.  To  my  eyes  it 
was  the  illuminated  initial  of  the  oriental  chapter. 
Certainly  it  reads  like  its  heading — camels,  mosques, 
bazaars,  turbans,  baths,  and  chibouques — and  the 
whole  East  rows  out  to  you,  in  the  turbaned  and 
fluttering-robed  rascal  who  officiates  as  your  pilot, 
and  moors  you  in  the  shadow  of  palms  under  the 
Pacha's  garden.  Malign  Alexandria  no  more,  al- 
though you  do  have  your  choice  of  camels  or  omni- 
buses to  go  to  your  hotel ;  for  when  you  are  there 
and  trying  to  dine,  the  wild-eyed  Bedoueen  who 
serves  you,  will  send  you  deep  into  the  desert  by 
his  masquerading  costume  and  his  eager,  restless 
eye,  looking  as  if  he  would  momently  spring  through 
the  window,  and  plunge  into  the  desert  depths. 
These  Bedoueen  or  Arab  servants  are  like  steeds  of 
the  sun  for  carriage  horses.  They  fly,  girt  with 
wild  fascination,  for  what  will  they  do  next  ? 


UNDER    THE    PALMS  159 

As  you  donkey  out  of  Alexandria  to  Pompey's 
Pillar,  you  will  pass  a  beautiful  garden  of  palms, 
and  by  sunset  nothing  is  so  natural  as  to  see  only 
those  trees.  Yet  the  fascination  is  lasting.  The 
poetry  of  the  first  exiles  you  saw,  does  not  perish 
in  the  presence  of  the  nation  ;  for  those  exiles  stood 
beckoning  like  angels  at  the  gate  of  Paradise,  sor- 
rowfully ushering  you  into  the  glory  whence  them- 
selves were  outcasts  forever : — and  as  you  curiously 
looked  in  passing,  you  could  riot  believe  that  their 
song  was  truth,  and  that  the  many  would  be  as 
beautiful  as  the  one. 

Thenceforward,  in  the  land  of  Egypt,  palms  are 
perpetual.  They  are  the  only  foliage  of  the  Nile ; 
for  we  will  not  harm  the  modesty  of  a  few  mimosas 
and  sycamores  by  foolish  claims.  They  are  the 
shade  of  the  mud  villages,  marking  their  site  in  the 
landscape,  so  that  the  groups  of  palms  are  the 
number  of  villages.  They  fringe  the  shore  and  the 
horizon.  The  sun  sets  golden  behind  them,  and 
birds  sit  swinging  upon  their  boughs  and  float  glori- 
ous among  their  trunks ;  on  the  ground  beneath 
are  flowers ;  the  sugar-cane  is  not  harmed  by  the 
ghostly  shade,  nor  the  tobacco,  and  the  yellow 
flowers  of  the  cotton-plant  star  its  dusk  at  evening. 
The  children  play  under  them  ;  the  old  men  crone 
and  smoke  ;  the  donkeys  graze  ;  the  surly  bison  an 3 


160  NILE    NOTES. 

the  conceited  camels  repose.  The  old  Bible  pic- 
tures are  ceaselessly  painted,  but  with  softer, 
clearer  colors  than  in  the  venerable  book. 

The  palm-grove  is  always  enchanted.  If  it 
stretch  inland  too  alluringly,  and  you  run  ashore 
to  stand  under  the  bending  boughs,  to  share  the 
peace  of  the  doves  swinging  in  the  golden  twilight, 
and  to  make  yourself  feel  more  scripturally,  at  least 
to  surround  yourself  with  sacred  emblems,  having 
small  other  hope  of  a  share  in  the  beauty  of  holi- 
ness— yet  you  will  never  reach  the  grove.  You 
will  gain  the  trees,  but  it  is  not  the  grove  you 
fancied — that  golden  gloom  will  never  be  gained — 
it  is  an  endless  El  Dorado  gleaming  along  these 
shores.  The  separate  columnar  trunks  ray  out  in 
foliage  above ;  but  there  is  no  shade  of  a  grove,  no 
privacy  of  a  wood,  except,  indeed,  at  sunset, 

"  A  privacy  of  glorious  light." 

Each  single  tree  has  so  little  shade  that  the  mass, 
standing  at  wide  ease,  can  never  create  the  shady 
solitude,  without  which,  there  is  no  grove. 

But  the  eye  never  wearies  of  palms,  more  than 
the  ear  of  singing  birds.  Solitary  they  stand  upon 
the  sand,  or  upon  the  level,  fertile  land  in  groups, 
with  a  grace  and  dignity  that  no  tree  surpasses. 
Verv  soon  the  eye  beholds  in  their  forms  the  origi- 


UNDER    THE    PALMS.  161 

nal  type  of  the  columns  which  it  will  afterward 
admire  in  the  temples.  Almost  the  first  palm  is 
architecturally  suggestive,  even  in  those  western 
gardens — but  to  artists  living  among  them  and  see- 
ing only  them !  Men's  hands  are  not  delicate  in  the 
early  ages,  and  the  fountain  fairness  of  the  palms 
is  not  very  flowingly  fashioned  in  the  capitals ;  but 
in  the  flowery  perfection  of  the  Parthenon  the  palm 
triumphs.  The  forms  of  those  columns  came  from 
Egypt,  and  that  which  was  the  suspicion  of  the 
earlier  workers,  was  the  success  of  more  delicate 
designing.  So  is  the  palm  inwound  with  our  art, 
and  poetry,  and  religion,  and  of  all  trees  would  the 
Howadji  be  a  palm,  wide-waving  peace  and  plenty, 
and  feeling  his  kin  to  the  Parthenon  and  Raphael's 
pictures. 

But  nature  is  absolute  taste,  and  has  no  pure 
ornament,  so  that  the  palm  is  no  less  useful  than 
beautiful.  The  family  is  infinite  and  ill  understood. 
The  cocoa-nut,  date,  and  sago,  are  all  palms.  Ropes 
and  sponges  are  wrought  of  their  tough  interior  fibre. 
The  various  fruits  are  nutritious  ;  the  wood,  the 
roots,  and  the  leaves,  are  all  consumed.  It  is  one 
of  nature's  great  gifts  to  her  spoiled  sun-darlings. 
Whoso  is  born  of  the  sun  is  made  free  of  the  world. 
Like  the  poet  Thomson,  he  may  put  his  hands  in 
his  pockets  and  eat  apples  at  leisure. 


162  NILE    NOTES. 

I  do  not  find  that  the  Egyptians  ever  deified  the 
palm,  as  some  of  them  did  the  crocodile.  And 
therein  1  find  a  want  of  that  singular  shrewdness 
of  perception  which  the  poet  Martineau  perpetu- 
ally praises  in  that  antique  people.  It  was  a  miser- 
ably cowardly  thing  to  make  a  god  of  a  dragon, 
who  dined  and  supped  upon  you  and  your  friends 
whenever  he  could  catch  you  ;  who  did  nothing 
but  stretch  his  scales  upon  the  sand  in  the  sun,  and 
left  only  suspicious  musk-balls  as  a  legacy  to  his 
worshippers.  To  deify  that  mole-eyed  monster,  and 
then  carefully  embalm  the  dead  abomination,  looked 
very  like  fear,  spite  of  Thothmes,  Psamitticus,  and 
Ramses  the  Great.  For,  meanwhile,  the  land  en- 
tertained angels  unawares.  They  were  waving 
gracious  wings  over  the  green  fields,  and  from  the 
•jeomb  of  plenty  dropped  the  sweet,  nutritious 
dates,  and  from  the  plumage  of  those  wings  were 
houses  thatched.  And  every  part  of  the  beautiful 
body,  living  or  dead,  was  a  treasure  to  the  mole- 
eyed  crocodile-worshippers.  The  land  was  covered 
with  little  gods,  whispering  peace  and  plenty ;  but 
they  were  no  more  deified  than  the  sweet  stray 
thoughts  of  the  villagers.  Indeed,  poet  Harriet, 
your  erudite  Egyptians  went  out  of  their  way  to 
worship  devils. 

They  do  better,  even  to  this  day,  higher  up  the 


UNDER    THE    PALMS.  163 

rivei.  Along  the  remote  shores  of  the  white  Nile, 
are  races  wild  and  gentle,  who  extract  the  four 
lower  front  teeth  for  beauty,  and  worship  the  great 
trees.  And  truly,  in  the  tropics,  the  great  tree  is 
a  great  god.  Far  outspreading  shielding  arms,  he 
folds  his  worshippers  from  the  burning  sun,  and 
wrestles  wondrously  with  the  wildest  gales.  Birds 
build  in  the  sweet  security  of  his  shade.  Fruit 
ripens  and  falls,  untended,  from  his  beneficent 
boughs.  At  midnight  the  winds  converse  with 
him,  and  he  hides  the  stars.  He  outlives  genera- 
tions, and  is  a  cherished  tradition. 

There  is  a  godlike  god  !  A  great  tree  could 
proselyte  even  among  Christians.  The  Boston  elm 
has  moved  hearts  that  Park  street  and  Brattle  street 
have  never  intenerated.  There  is  a  serious,  sensible 
worship  !  The  God  hath  duration,  doth  nothing 
harm,  and  imparts  very  tangible  blessings.  The 
Egyptian  worship  of  the  crocodile  is  very  thin, 
measured  by  this  Dinka  religion  of  the  tree.  And 
is  the  crocodile's  a  loftier  degree  of  life  than  the 
tree's  ? 

It  is  the  date-palm  which  is  so  common  and 
graceful  in  Egypt.  Near  Asyoot,  the  ascending 
Howadji  sees  for  the  first  time  the  Dom  palm. 
This  is  a  heavier,  huskier  tree,  always  forked.  It 
has  a  very  tropical  air,  and  solves  the  mystery  of 


164  NILE    NOTES. 

gingerbread  nuts.  For  if  the  hard,  brown  fruit  of 
the  Dom  be  not  the  hard,  brown  nuts  which  our 
credulous  youth  ascribed  to  the  genius  of  the  baker 
at  the  corner,  they  are  certainly  the  type  of  those 
gingered  blisses ;  and  never  did  the  Howadji  seem 
to  himself  more  hopelessly  lost  in  the  magic  of 
Egypt  and  the  East,  than  when  he  plucked  ginger- 
bread from  a  palm-tree. 

The  Dom  is  coarse  by  the  side  of  the  feathery 
date-palm,  like  a  clumsy  brake  among  maiden  hair 
ferns.  It  is  tropically  handsome,  but  is  always  the 
plebeian  palm.  It  has  clumsy  hands  and  feet,  and, 
like  a  frowsy  cook,  gawks  in  the  land.  But,  plumed 
as  a  prince  and  graceful  as  a  gentleman,  stands  the 
date ;  and  whoever  travels  among  palms,  travels  in 
good  society.  Southward  stretches  the  Ibis,  and 
morning  and  evening  sees  few  other  trees.  They 
sculpture  themselves  upon  memory,  more  fairly 
than  upon  these  old  columns.  The  wave  of  their 
boughs  henceforward,  wherever  you  are,  will  be  the 
wave  of  the  magician's  wand,  and  you  will  float 
again  upon  the  Nile,  and  wonder  how  were  shaped 
the  palms  upon  the  shore,  when  Adam  sailed  with 
Eve  down  the  rivers  of  Eden. 


XXIII. 


THERE  are  but  two  sounds  in  Egypt:  the  sigh 
of  the  sakia,  and  the  national  cry  of  "  bucksheesh, 
Howadji"  —  Alms,  O  shopkeeper!  Add  the  cease- 
less bark  of  curs,  if  you  are  trinitarian,  and  you. 
will  find  your  mystic  number  everywhere  made 
good. 

"  Bucksheesh  Howadji,"  is  the  universal  greeting. 
From  all  the  fields,  as  you  stroll  along  the  shore,  or 
sail  up  the  river,  swells  this  vast  shout.  Young 
and  old,  and  both  sexes,  in  every  variety  of  shriek, 
whine,  entreaty,  demand,  contempt,  and  indifference, 
weary  the  Howadji's  soul  with  the  incessant  ciy. 
Little  children  who  cannot  yet  talk,  struggle  to 
articulate  it.  Father  and  mother  shout  it  in  full 
chorus.  The  boys  on  the  tongues  of  sakias,  the 
ebony  statues  at  the  shadoofs,  the  spectres  in  the 
yellow-blossomed  cotton-field,  or  standing  among 
che  grain,  break  their  long  silence  with  this  cry 
only  :  "  Alms,  0  shopkeeper." 


Ib6  NILE    NOfES. 

It  is  not  always  a  request.  Girls  and  boys  laugh 
as  they  shout  it,  nor  cease  picking  cotton  or  cut- 
ting stalks.  Groups  of  children,  with  outstretched 
hands,  surround  you  in  full  chorus,  if  you  pause  to 
sketch,  or  shoot,  or  loiter.  They  parry  your  glances 
with  the  begging.  Have  the  sleepy-souled  Egyp- 
tians learned  that  if  Howadji  have  evil  eyes,  there 
is  no  surer  spell  to  make  them  disappear,  than  an 
appeal  to  their  pockets  ?  Like  a  prayer,  the  whole 
land  repeats  the  invocation,  and  with  the  usual 
amount  of  piety  and  the  pious. 

Yet  sometimes  it  is  an  imperial  demand ;  and  you 
would  fancy  Belisarius,  or  Ramses  the  Great,  sat 
begging  upon  the  bank.  Sauntering,  in  a  golden 
sunset,  along  the  shore  at  Edfoo,  a  wandering 
minstrel  in  the  grass  tapped  his  tarabuka  as  the 
Howadji  passed,  that  they  should  render  tribute. 
The  unnoting  Howadji  passed  on.  Thankless  trade 
the  tax-gatherer,  thou  tarabuka  thrummer! — and 
he  looked  after  us  with  contempt  for  the  Christian 
dogs. 

Farther  on,  a  voice  shouted,  as  if  the  Howadji 
had  passed  a  shrine  unkneeling :  "  shopkeepers ! 
shopkeepers ! "  But  dignity  is  deaf,  and  they  saun- 
tered on.  Then  more  curtly  and  angrily  :  "  shop- 
keepers !  shopkeepers  !" — as  if  a  man  had  discovered 
false  weight  in  his  wares.  •  And  constantly  nearing, 


ALMS!    O   SHOPKEEPER!  167 

the  howl  of  Howadji  grew  intolerable,  until  there 
was  a  violent  clapping  of  hands,  and  a  blear-eyed 
Egyptian  ran  in  front  of  us,  like  a  ragingly  mad 
emperor:  "Alms!  O  shopkeeper !"  "To  the  devil, 
O  Egyptian  !" 

For  no  shopkeeper  on  record  ever  gave  alms  > 
except  to  the  miserable,  deformed,  old,  and  blind. 
They  are  the  only  distinctions  you  can  make  or 
maintain,  in  an  otherwise  monotonous  mass  of 
misery.  Nation  of  beggars,  effortless,  effete,  buck- 
sheesh  is  its  prominent  point  of  cortact  with  the 
Howadji,  who,  revisiting  the  Nile  in  dreams,  hear* 
far-sounding  and  forever:  "Alms,  O  shopkeeper'" 


XXIV. 

SYENE. 

Some  from  farthest  South — 
Syene.  and  where  the  shadow  both  way  falls, 
Meroe,  Nilotick  isle." 

APPROACHING  Assouan,  or  the  Greek  Syene,  which 
we  will  henceforth  call  it,  as  more  graceful  and  mu- 
sical, the  high  bluffs  with  bold  masses  of  rock  her- 
alded a  new  scenery — and  its  sharp  lofty  forms  were 
like  the  pealing  trumpet  tones,  announcing  the  cri- 
sis of  the  struggle.  It  was  a  pleasant  January  morn- 
ing, that  the  Ibis  skimmed  along  the  shore.  The 
scenery  was  bolder  than  any  she  had  seen  in  her 
flight.  Rocks  broke  the  evenness  of  the  river's 
surface,  and  in  the  heart  of  the  hills  the  river  seemed 
to  end,  it  was  so  shut  in  by  the  rocky  cliff's  and 
points. 

The  town  Syene  is  a  dull  mud  mass,  like  all 
other  Egyptian  towns.  But  palms  spread  luxuri- 
antly along  the  bank,  and  on  the  shores  of  Ele- 
phantine— the  island  opposite — sweeps  and  slopes 
of  greenery  stretched  westward  from  the  eye. 

Upon  that  shore  the  eye  lingers  curiouslv  upon  the 


SYENE.  169 

remains  of  a  Christian  convent,  where  there  are  yet 
grottoes,  formerly  used  as  chapels  and  shrines,  and 
still  as  you  look  and  linger,  the  forms  and  faces  of 
Christian  lands  begin  to  rise,  and  reel  before  your 
fancy,  and  you  half  fear,  while  you  are  fascinated, 
that  the  East  will  fade  in  that  western  remembrance, 
until  some  Arab  beldame — brown  and  unhuman  as 
a  mummy  from  the  hills,  and  fateful  as  Atropos — 
peers  into  your  dreaming  eyes,  arid  tells  you  that  on 
that  site  an  old  king  of  the  land  buried  incredible 
treasure,  before  he  went  to  war  against  the  Nubi- 
ans. The  miserly  monarch  left  nothing  for  his  fami- 
ly or  friends,  and  all  was  committed  to  the  charge 
of  an  austere  magician.  Years  passed,  and  the  king 
came  no  more.  The  relatives  sought  to  obtain  the 
treasure,  and,  foiling  the  magician,  slew  him  upon  the 
shore.  But  dying,  he  lived  more  terribly ;  for  he 
rose  a  huge  serpent,  that  devoured  all  his  assailants. 
Years  pass,  and  the  king  comes  no  more.  Yet  the 
serpent  still  watches  the  treasure,  and  once  every 
midnight,  at  the  culmination  of  certain  stars,  he  de- 
scends to  the  Nile  to  drink,  while  so  wonderful  a 
light  streams  from  his  awful  head,  that  if  the  king 
comes  not,  it  is  not  because  he  cannot  see  the  way. 
Were  the  Aurora  in  the  east,  the  Hovvadji  would 
suspect  the  secret,  and  when  it  shone  no  more,  know 
that  the  king  had  returned  to  Syene. 


170  NILE    NOTES. 

It  is  the  city  of  the  cataract.  Built  at  the  en 
trance  of  the  rapids,  it  is  the  chief  point  for  the  Nu- 
bian-bound voyager,  and  is  the  bourne  of  most  Nile 
travelers.  The  Ibis  had  flown  hither  from  Cairo  in 
twenty-two  days — a  flight  well  flown  ;  foi  we  had 
met  melancholy  Howadji,  who  had  been  fifty  day? 
from  Alexandria.  And  the  ancient  mariner  of  the 
Nile— will  he  ever  behold  Syene,  or  see  it  only  a  palm 
fringed  mirage  upon  the  shore,  as  he  dashes  up  and 
down  the  cataract  ?  But  do  not  turn  there,  reflec- 
tive reader,  when  you  ascend  the  Nile.  Believe  no 
Verde  Giovanes  who  give  breakfasts  on  Philae,  and 
decry  Nubia.  Push  on,  farther  and  faster — as  if 
you  must  ride  the  equator  before  you  pause — as  if 
you  could  not  sink  deep  enough  in  the  strangeness 
and  sweetness  of  tropical  travel.  Believe  an  impar- 
tial Howadji  who  has  no  cangie  or  other  boats  to 
let  at  Mahratta,  that  Nubia  is  a  very  different  land 
from  Egypt,  and  that  you  have  not  penetrated  an- 
tiquest  Egypt  until  you  have  been  awe-stricken  by 
the  silence  which  was  buried  ages  ago  in  Aboo  Sim- 
bel,  and  by  the  hand-folded  Osiride  figures,  which 
people,  like  dumb  and  dead  gods,  that  dim,  demon- 
iac hall. 

The  beach  of  Syene  was  busy.     Small  craft  were 
^/>    loading,  and  swarms  of  naked  boys  were  driving  lit 
t'e  donkeys  laden  with  sacks  of  dates,  gum-arabic 


SYENE. 


171 


tamarinds  and  other  burdens,  from  Sennaar,  and 
the  tropical  interior,  pleasant  to  the  imagination  as 
to  the  taste.  Huge  camels  loomed  in  the  back- 
ground, sniffing  serenely,  and  growling  and  grum- 
bling, as  they  were  forced  to  kneel,  and  ponderous 
loads  were  heaped  upon  their  backs.  Shattered 
hulks  of  dahabieh  and  cangie  lay,  bare-ribbed  car- 
casses, upon  the  sand,  and  deformed  and  blear-eyed 
wrecks  of  men  and  women  crept,  worm-like,  in  and 
out  of  them.  Men,  and  women,  too,  in  coarse  blank- 
ets, or  Mrs.  Bull's  blue  night-gowns,  brought  all 
kinds  of  savage  spears,  and  clubs,  and  ostrich  eggs, 
and  gay  baskets,  and  clustered  duskily  on  the  shore 
opposite  the  boat,  and  waited  silently  and  passion- 
lessly  until  they  could  catch  the  eye  of  the  How- 
adji — then  as  silently  elevated  their  wares  with  one 
hand,  and  with  the  other  held  up  indicative  fingers 
of  the  price.  Unless  trade  more  active  goes  on 
with  other  dahabieh  than  with  the  Ibis,  the  How- 
adji  suspects  the  blanketed  and  night-gowned  Sye- 
nites do  not  live  solely  by  such  barter.  Behind  this 
activity,  unwonted  and  unseen  hitherto,  a  grove  of 
thick  palms  broad-belted  the  beach,  over  which,  in 
a  blue  sky,  burned  the  noonday  sun. 

The  Howadji  landed,  nevertheless,  and  rode 
through  the  town  on  donkeys.  Dry  dust  under 
foot,  yellow,  ratty-looking  dogs  barking  from  the 


172  NILE    NOTES. 

mud-caked  roofs,  women  unutterable,  happily  hid- 
ing their  faces',  men  blanketed  or  naked,  idly  star- 
ing, sore-eyed  children  beseeching  bucksheesh,  woe- 
less  want  everywhere,  was  the  sum  of  sight  in 
Syene.  Thither,  in  times  past,  Juvenal  was  ban- 
ished, and  dungeoned  in  Africa,  had  leisure  to 
repent  his  satire  and  remember  Rome.  For  the  Ro- 
mans reared  a  city  here,  and  Sir  Gardner  found  re- 
mains some  years  since.  But  it  was  hard  to  believe 
that  any  spot  could  so  utterly  decay,  upon  which 
Rome  had  once  set  its  seal.  To  a  tourist  from  the 
lost  Pleiad,  there  would  have  been  very  little  differ- 
ence between  the  brown  mummies  who  stood  silent 
among  the  huts  of  Syene  and  the  yellow  ratty  curs 
that  barked  peevishly,  as  our  donkeys  trotted  along. 
Brutes  can  never  sink  beneath  a  certain  level.  But 
there  is  no  certain  level  of  degradation  beneath 
which  men  may  not  fall.  The  existence  of  the  Sye- 
nites is  as  morally  inexplicable  as  that  of  loathsome 
serpents  in  lonely  deserts.  In  these  lands  you  seem 
to  have  reached  the  outskirts  of  creation — the  sink 
of  nature — and  almost  suspect  that  its  genius  is  too 
indolent  ever  to  be  entirely  organized.  For  all 
strength  should  be  sweet,  and  all  force  made  fair — 
a  fact  which  is  clearly  forgotten  or  disproved  in 
Syene. 

The  Howadji  left  the  houses,  and  were  instantly 


SYENE.  173 

in  the  desert — the  wild,  howling  wilderness,  that 
stretches  ungreened  to  the  Red  Sea.  It  was  not  a 
plain  of  sand,  but  a  huge  hilliness  of  rock  and  sand 
commingled.  There  was  none  of  the  grandeur  of 
fhe  sand-sea,  for  there  was  no  outlet  for  the  eye  to 
the  horizon.  It  was  like  that  craggy,  desolate, 
diamond-strewn  valley,  into  which  Sinbad  was  car- 
ried by  the  roc.  All  around  us  there  was  much 
glittering,  but  I  saw  few  gems.  One  solitary  man 
was  watering  with  a  shadoof  a  solitary  inclosure 
of  sand.  A  few  spare  blades  of  grass,  like  the 
hairs  on  a  bald  .head,  were  visible  here  and  there, 
but  nothing  to  reward  such  toil.  It  faintly  greened 
the  sand,  that  small  inclosure  ;  but  the  man,  at  his 
hopeless  labor,  was  a  fitting  figure  for  the  land- 
scape. 

Among  the  tombs  grouped  together  in  the  desert, 
the  Howadji  seemed  hundreds  of  miles  from  men. 
There  is  nothing  so  dreary  as  an  Egyptian  burial- 
place.  It  is  placed  always  on  the  skirts  of  the 
desert,  where  no  green  thing  is.  Huge  scaly  domes, 
like  temples  where  ghouls  worship,  were  open  to 
the  wild  winds,  and  the  stones  lay  irregularly  scat- 
tered, buried  in  the  sand.  It  was  Lido-like,  because 
it  was  sand,  but  inexpressibly  sadder  than  those 
Hebrew  graves  upon  the  Adriatic  shore;  for  here 
the  desert,  illimitable,  stole  all  hope  away. 


174  NILE    NOTES 

A  solitary  camel  passed — phantom-like — with  his 
driver.  Noiseless  their  tread.  No  word  was  spoken, 
no  sign  made.  The  Muslim  looked  at  us  impassibly, 
as  if  we  had  been  grotesque  carvings  upon  the 
tombs.  The  low  wind  went  pacing  deliriously 
through  the  defiles.  The  silent  solitude  stifled 
thought,  and  seemed  to  numb  the  soul  with  its 
deadness.  But  suddenly  palms  waved  over  us  like 
hands  of  blessing,  and,  caressing  the  shore  of  Syene, 
ran  the  victor  of  the  desert,  blue-armored  from  his 
cataract  triumph. 


XXV. 

THE  TREATY  OF  SYENE, 

Ar  sinset  a  cloud  of  dust. 

It  was  a  donkey  cavalcade,  descending  the  beach. 
Foremost  rode  the  captain  of  the  cataract,  habited 
blackly,  with  a  white  turban.  The  pilotage  through 
the  cataract  is  the  monopoly  of  a  club  of  pilots 
(Mercury,  God  of  commerce,  forgive  the  name !) 
with  some  one  of  which  the  bargain  must  be  con- 
cluded. They  all  try  to  cheat  each  other,  of  course ;  6 ', 
and  probably  manage  the  affairs  of  the  partnership, 
by  allowing  each  member,  in  turn,  an  illimitable 
chance  of  cheating.  The  white-turbaned,  black- 
habited  donkestrian  was  the  very  reis  of  reises,  the 
sinfulest  sinner. 

Behind  him  thronged  a  motley  group,  cantering 
upon  small  donkeys.  At  length  the  spell  was  suc- 
cessful, and  the  spirits  were  coming.  Bly,ck  spirits 
and  white,  blue  spirits  and  gray,  were  mingled  and 
mingling.  Long  men  and  short,  bald  and  grisly, 
capped  and  turbaned  variously,  and  swathed  in  un- 
gainly garments,  that  flew  and  fluttered  in  the 
breeze  of  their  speed,  and  blent  with  the  dust  of  the 


176  NILE    NOTES 

donkeys,  made  great  commotion  in  the  golden  quiet 
of  sunset. 

The  cavalcade  was  magically  undonkeyed ;  the 
savages  sprang,  and  shambled,  and  tumbled  off, 
while  their  beasts  were  yet  in  full  motion,  and 
were  mounting  the  plank,  and  plunging  upon  the 
Ibis,  before  the  animals  had  fairly  halted.  Then 
ensued  the  greeting,  the  salaaming.  This  is  an 
exquisitely  ludicrous  ceremony  to  the  spectator.  It 
commences  with  touching  hands  and  repeating 
some  formula  of  thanksgiving  and  prayer.  It  con- 
tinues by  touching  hands  and  repeating  the  formula, 
which  is  by  no  means  brief,  and  is  rattled  off  as  un- 
concernedly as  Roman  priests  rattle  off  their  morn- 
ing masses,  looking  all  around,  and  letting  the 
words  run.  When  it  is  finished,  the  parties  kiss 
their  own  hands  and  separate.  Generally,  having 
nothing  to  say,  they  go  apart  after  this  elaborate 
greeting,  and  separate  silently  at  last,  unless,  as  usu- 
al, they  quarrel  stoutly  before  parting. 

It  was  amusing  to  see  the  Commander,  conducting 
this  ceremony  with  several.  The  point  seemed  to 
be,  who  should  have  the  last  word.  When  the 
innocent  spectator  supposed  the  how-d'ye-do  al- 
ready said,  the  actors  burst  forth  again,  and  kept 
bursting  forth  until  kissing  time.  It  shows  the 
value  of  time  to  a  people  who  are  fifteen  minutes 


THE    TREATY    OP    SYENE.  177 

saying,  "  how  are  you?"  And  yet,  the  Syenites, 
and  all  other  Egyptians  have  the  advantage  of  us  in 
some  ways.  They  salaam  at  great  length;  and 
then,  having  nothing  to  say,  are  silent.  We  salaam 
very  briefly;  and  then,  having  nothing  to  say,  talk 
a  great  deal.  After  all,  some  Howadji  doubt 
whether  a  Syenite  reis,  sitting  silent  in  the  sunset, 
smoking  his  pipe,  is  not  as  fair  a  figure  to  imagina- 
tion as  Verde  Giovane,  or  all  the  Piu  Griovanes  sit- 
ting in  white  gloves  and  bright  boots,  and  talking 
through  an  act  in  an  opera-box. 

The  salaaming  accomplished,  the  savages  seated 
themselves  about  the  deck.  The  captain  of  the 
cataract,  as  one  of  the  high  contracting  parties,  sat 
next  the  cabin,  before  which  sat  the  other  party — 
the  Howadji.  The  Commander  of  the  Faithful,  in 
full  pontificals,  enthroned  himself  upon  a  chair  in 
the  centre  of  the  deck.  Chibouques  were  lighted, 
coffee  brought  by  the  Hadji  Hamed,  whose  solemni- 
ty was  not  softened  as  on  that  Terpsichorean  night 
at  Esne,  and  zealously  puffing  and  sipping,  the 
council  commenced. 

The  Howadji  knows  no  occasion,  except  similar 
diplomatic  assemblies,  which  could  present  a  group 
of  more  imbecile  faces.  The  want  of  pride,  of 
manliness,  of  dignity,  of  force,  of  all  that  makes  the 
human  face  divine,  was  supplied  by  an  expression 

8* 


178  NILE    NOTES. 

of  imbecile  cunning,  ridiculously  transparent.  The 
complexions  were  of  every  color,  from  yellow  cop- 
per to  Nubian  deadness  of  blackness.  It  was  as 
hateful  to  be  treating  with  such  human  caricatures, 
as  it  would  have  been  with  apes.  The  natural 
savage  may  b'e  noble — certainly  the  records  of  In- 
dian life  are  rich  in  dignity,  heroism,  and  manliness. 
But  a  race  effete — the  last  lees  of  what  was  a  na- 
tion, are  not  to  be  gilded  when  they  have  sun"k~en~ 
into  imbecility,  because  the  elder  inhabitants  of  the 


noble.  HowBeTt  the  poet  Martineau 
could  watch  these  men  and  sing  rapturously  of  "the 
savage  faculty."  Learn  at  Syene,  0  unpoetic  How- 
adji !  that  not  the  savage  faculty  of  a  dotard  race, 
but  the  pure  providence  of  God,  takes  you  up  and 
down  the  cataract. 

The  conditions  of  the  treaty,  as  of  many  others, 
were  mostly  understood  before  the  Congress  assem- 
bled. Prolix  palaver  and  the  dexterous  seizing  of 
chance  advantages,  were  the  means  of  attaining 
those  conditions,  and  the  Commander  shook  out  his 
golden-sleeves,  as  Metternich  his  powdered  wig  at 
Vienna,  then  crossed  his  eyes  like  the  arbiter  of 
many  fates,  and  said,  pleasantly  puffing,  in  Arabic — 

"You  took  up  an  English  boat  this  morn- 
ing?" 

The  captain  of  the  cataract  responded  "  taib," 


THE    TREATY    OF    SYENE.  179 

meaning,  "  yes,  very  true  ;"  and  the  high  contract- 
ors smoked  significantly. 

"A  good  wind  for  passing  the  cataract,"  contin- 
ued the  Commander.  No  answer,  but  a  ceaseless 
puffing,  and  a  dubious,  indifferent  shrug.  The  fact 
being  so,  and  the  passage  much  depending  upon  the 
wind,  it  was  an  advantage,  say  the  five  of  trumps,  /-fr 
for  the  Commander,  and  there  was  a  brief  silence. 
Not  to  irritate  by  following  up  advantages,  Golden- 
sleeve  suggested  mildly,  "quite  a  pleasant  day," 
and  smiled  benignly  upon  the  last  rosy  blushings 
of  the  west. 

"  Quite  a  pleasant  day,"  retorted  the  Reis,  with- 
out showing  his  hand,  but  meditating  a  play. 

The  captain  of  the  cataract  raised  his  eyes  care- 
lessly to  the  far  outspreading  yards  of  the  Ibis, 
glanced  along  her  deck  with  his  shrunken,  soulless 
orbs,  puffed  portentously,  then  slowly  said,  "  your 
boat  is  too  large  to  go  up  the  cataract."  The 
knave  of  trumps,  for  the  boat  was  very  large. ' 

But  the  Commander  puffed,  and  the  reis  puffed, 
and  we  all  puffed,  as  if  nothing  had  been  said.  The 
motley  cavalcade  of  the  reis  squatted  upon  the 
deck,  stared  at  the  Howadji,  and  listened  to  the  talk, 
while  they  passed  a  nargileh  around  the  circle,  and 
grunted  and  groaned  intense  satisfaction  and  delight. 

"  This   boat  went   up   the  cataract   last  year," 


180  NILE    NOTES. 

commenced  the  Commander,  as  if  opening  up  an 
entirely  new  topic,  and  quite  ignoring  the  knave. 
Silence  again,  and  great  cloudiness  from  the  chi- 
bouques. 

"  Many  boats  pass  up  this  year  ?" 

"  Many,  and  pay  high."  The  Commander  lost 
that  lift. 

Gradually  the  face  of  Golden-si eeve  settled  into 
a  semi-sternness  of  expression.  He  exhaled  smoke 
with  the  air  of  a  man  whose  word  was  final,  and  in 
whose  propositions  the  finger  of  fate  was  clearly  to 
be  discerned,  and  whom  to  withstand,  would  be  the 
sin  against  the  Pacha.  Curious  to  contemplate! 
In  the  degree  that  the  Commander's  face  waxed 
stern,  and  his  eyes  darkened  with  decision,  crept  9 
feline  softness  of  sweetness  over  the  visage  of  the 
reis  of  reises,  and  his  mole  eyes  more  miserably 
dwindled,  and  the  smoke  curled  more  lightly  from 
his  pipe.  His  body  squirmed  snake-like  as  he 
glanced,  sycophantically  entreating,  at  the  How- 
adji.  How  clearly  the  crisis  was  coming  !  Astute 
Commander  in  full  pontificals  ! 

At  length,  like  a  bold  lover,  the  Golden-sleeve 
popped  the  question.  Then  what  smiling,  what 
snaky  sweetness,  what  utter  inability  to  reply. 

"Tell  him,"  said  the  Pacha,  "  that  going  or  gray- 
ing is  quite  indifferent  to  us. — " 


THE    TREATY    OP    SYENE.  .      181 

The  captain  of  the  cataract  received  the  inter- 
pretation like  glad  tidings,  and  smiled  as  if  it  would 
solace  his  soul  to  embrace  the  company. 

The  question  was  popped  again — 

"  Six  hundred  piastres,"  simpered,  almost  inaudi- 
bly,  the  old  sinner. 

"  Damn !  Six  hundred  devils,"  exclaimed  the 
Commander  in  English,  shoving  his  chair  back — 
frowning  and  springing  up.  "  We'll  not  go."  And 
the  golden-sleeved  cloak  became  suddenly  a  gilt- 
edged  cloud,  pregnant  with  the  maddest  tempests. 

But  unconcerned  puifed  the  captain  of  the  cata- 
ract, smoking  as  serenely  as  Vesuvius  during  a  Nor- 
way gale — and  unconcerned  puffed  all  the  lieuten- 
ants and  majors  and  under-scrubbery  of  the  cata- 
ract, as  if  the  world  were  not  about  to  end. 

Innocent  Howadji!  It  was  only  part  of  the 
play.  The  Commander's  face  and  manner  said 
plainly  enough  all  the  time,  "If  you  think  I  come 
hither  as  a  lion  it  were  pity  of  my  life,"  and  pres- 
ently he  sat  down  again  with  a  fresh  pipe,  and  an- 
other fingan  of  mocha,  calmly  as  any  other  actor 
who  has  made  a  point,  but  will  waive  your  appro- 
bation. Mildly  smoking,  he  suggested  pleasantly, 

"We  don't  pay  six  hundred  piastres." 

Smoky  silence — 

"We  pay  about  four  hundred  and  fifty." 


182  NILE    NOTES. 

Smoky  silence — 

"  Taib — good,"  said  the  captain  of  the  cataract 
that  being  the  preconceived  price  of  both  parties. 

A  general  commotion  ensued — an  universal  shak- 
ing as  after  sermon  in  Christian  churches — when 
this  word  was  said.  Followed  much  monosyllabic 
discourse,  also  grave  grunting,  and  a  little  more 
salaaming  among  the  belated  sinners.  Chibouques 
were  refilled,  fingans  freely  circulated,  and  the  re- 
sonance of  satisfactory  smacks  clearly  excited  the 
wonder  and  envy  of  the  unfavored  pedlers  who  still 
stood  along  the  beach.  The  reis  of  reises  looked 
about  him  with  a  great  deal  of  expectation  and  anx- 
iety, of  which  no  notice  was  taken,  until  he  made 
bold  to  suggest  interrogatively,  "  a  little  something 
else?" — meaning  brandy,  which  the  Commander 
brought,  and  of  which  the  reis  emptied  two  such 
mighty  measures,  that  if  there  be  virtue  in  Cognac, 
he  was  undonkeyed  before  that  hour  of  night  when 
the  serpent-magician  glares  glorious  over  Syene. 

Suddenly  the  congress  rose.  The  reis  of  the 
cataract  smiled  approvingly  upon  the  Howadji  as  if 
they  were  very  pretty  men,  to  be  very  prettily  done 
by  a  grisly  old  mummy  of  an  Egyptian,  then  sa- 
laamed, kissed  his  hand,  and  stepped  ashore.  When 
he  was  fairly  landed,  I  saw  the  Commander  assist- 
ing the  confused  crowd  of  under-scrubbery  out  of 


THE    TREATY    OF    SYENE.  183 

the  boat,  with  his  kurbash  or  whip  of  hippopotamus 
hide.  They  all  clattered  out,  chattering  and  flut« 
tering ;  and  tumbling  on  to  their  donkeys,  one  of 
the  high  contracting  parties  shambled  up  the  beach, 
and  disappeared  in  a  cloud  of  dust  among  the 
palms. 

And  the  treaty  of  Syene  was  concluded. 


XXVI. 

THE    CATARACT, 

THE  Ibis  went  up  the  cataract. 

In  that  pleasant,  spacious  dining-room  of  Shep- 
herd's, at  Cairo,  after  billiard-exhilaration  of  a 
pleasant  morning,  men  ask  each  other,  over  a 
quiet  tiffin,  "  you  went  up  the  cataract  ?"  as  if 
boats  leaped  cataracts  as  lovers  scale  silken  ladders 
to  their  ladies. 

The  Ibis,  however,  went  up  the  cataract.  Imagi- 
native youth  will  needs  picture  the  Ibis  dashing 
dexterously  up  a  Nile  Niagara,  nor  deem  that  in 
mystic  Egypt  is  any  thing  impossible.  Nor  can 
that  imagination  picture  scenes  more  exciting. 
Only  now  let  us  more  sedately  sail ;  for  stranger 
scenery  than  this,  no  man  sees  in  long  voyaging. 

Early  on  the  morrow  of  the  treaty,  a  mad  rabble 
took  possession  of  the  Ibis.  They  came  tumbling 
and  pitching  in,  wild,  and  wan,  and  grotesque,  as  the 
eager  ghosts  that  file  into  Charon's  barque  when  it 
touches  the  Stygian  shore.  The  captain  of  cap- 


THE    CATARACT.  185 

tains  had  gone  round  by  land  to  meet  us  at  a  cer- 
tain point  in  the  rapid,  but  had  sent  a  substitute  to 
pilot  our  way  until  we  met  him.  The  new  rabble 
ran  around  the  deck  tumbling  over  each  other, 
shouting,  chattering,  staring  at  the  Hadji  Hamed's 
kitchen  arrangements,  and  the  peculiarities  of  the 
Howadji — and  the  whole  devil's  row  was  excited 
and  stirred  up  constantly  by  a  sagacious  superin- 
tendent with  a  long  kurbash,  who  touched  the  re- 
fractory where  cherubs  are  intangible,  taking  good 
care  that  the  row  should  be  constantly  more  riotous, 
and  nothing  effected  but  his  abundant  castigation. 
Our  own  crew  were  superfluous  for  the  nonce,  and 
lay  around  the  deck  useless  as  the  Howadji.  A 
bi-ight  sun  shone — a  fair  breeze  blew,  and  we  slipped 
quietly  away  from  the  shore  of  Syene. 

The  Ibis  rounded  a  rock,  and  all  greenness  and 
placid  palm  beauty  vanished.  We  were  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  seething  struggle  between  the  two 
powers.  Narrow,  and  swift,  and  dark,  and  still,  like 
a  king  flying  from  a  terrible  triumph,  flowed  our 
royal  river.  Huge  hills  of  jagged  rock  impended. 
Boulders  lay  in  the  water.  White  sand  shored  the 
stream,  stretching  sometimes  among  the  rocks  in 
short  sweeps,  whose  dazzling  white  contrasted  in- 
tensely with  the  black  barriers  of  rock.  High  on  a 
rocky  peak  glared  a  shekh's  white  tomb,  the  death's- 


1S6  NILE    NOTES. 

head  in  that  feast  of  terrible  fascination  and  delight, 
and  smoothly  sheering  precipices  below,  gave  hope 
no  ledge  to  grasp  in  falling,  but  let  it  slip  and  slide 
inevitably  into  the  black  gulf  beneath.  The  wreck 
of  a  dahabieh  lay  high-lifted  upon  the  rocks  in  the 
water,  against  the  base  of  the  cliff,  its  sycamore 
ribs  white  rotting,  like  skeletons  hung  for  horror 
and  warning  around  the  entrance  of  Castle  Despair. 
All  about  us  was  rock  ponderously  piled,  and  the 
few  sand  strips.  Every  instant  the  combinations 
changed,  so  narrow  was  the  channel,  and  every 
moment  the  scenery  was  more  savage. 

The  wind  blew  us  well,  and  the  sharp  quick  eye 
of  the  pilot  minded  well  our  course.  Sometimes 
we  swept  by  rocks  nearly  enough  to  touch  them. 
Sometimes  the  doubtful  Ibis  seemed  inevitably 
driving  into  a  cliff,  but  bent  away  as  she  ap- 
proached, and  ran  along  the  dark,  solemn  surface 
of  the  river.  Three  miles  of  such  sailing,  then  the 
cataract. 

It  is  a  series  of  rocky  rapids.  There  is  no  fall  of 
water,  only  a  foaming,  currenty  slope,  as  in  all 
rapids.  The  cataract  is  the  shock  of  the  struggle 
between  the  desert  and  the  river.  The  crisis  an- 
nounced long  since  by  the  threatening  sand-heights, 
has  arrived.  Through  your  dreamy  avenue  of  palm- 
twilight,  and  silence,  you  have  advanced  to  no  lotus 


THE    CATARACT.  187 

isles,  but  to  a  fierce  and  resounding  battle — that 
sense  of  fate  announced  it  in  the  still  sunniness 
of  the  first  mornings.  But  it  seemed  then  only 
shadowy,  even  seductive  in  awfulness,  like  death  to 
young  imaginations.  At  Syene,  this  sunny  morn- 
ing, it  has  become  a  stirring  reality.  Pressing  in 
from  Lybia  and  Arabia,  the  intervening  greenness 
the  insatiate  overwhelmed,  rocks  and  sands  here 
grasp  the  shoulders  of  the  river,  and  hurl  their  shat- 
tered crags  into  its  bosom. 

Bleak,  irregular  mounds  and  hills,  and  regularly 
layered  rock,  rise,  and  slope,  and  threaten,  all  around. 
Down  the  steep  sides  of  the  mountains,  here  reach- 
ingthe  river,  like  a  headlong  plunge  of  disordered  cav- 
alry, roll  fragments  of  stone  of  every  size  and  shape. 
Like  serried  fronts,  immovable,  breasting  the  bur- 
den of  the  battle,  the  black  smooth  precipices  stand 
in  the  rushing  stream.  Then  pile  upon  pile,  fantas- 
tic, picturesque,  strange,  but  never  sublime,  like 
foes  lifted  upon  foes  to  behold  the  combat,  the  in- 
tricate forms  of  rock  crowd  along  the  shore. 

It  is  the  desert's  enthusiastic  descent — its  frenzied 
charge  of  death  or  victory.  Confusion  confounded, 
desolated  desolation,  never  sublime,  yet  always 
solemn,  with  a  sense  of  fate  in  the  swift-rushing 
waters,  that  creates  a  sombre  interest,  not  all  un- 
human,  but  akin  to  dramatic  intensity. 


188  NILE    NOTES. 

The  Nile,  long  dallying  in  placid  Nubia,  lingera 
lovingly  around  templed  Philae — -the  very  verge  of 
the  vortex.  It  laves  the  lithe  flowers  along  its 
shore,  and  folds  it  in  a  beautiful  embrace.  It  sees 
what  it  saw  there,  but  what  it  sees  no  longer.  Is 
its  calm  the  trance  of  memory,  or  of  love  ?  What 
were  the  Ptolemies,  and  their  temples,  and  their 
lives — what  those  of  all  their  predecessors  there — 
but  various  expressions,  sweet  and  strange,  that 
flushed  along  the  face  of  the  Nile's  idol,  but  fleetly 
faded  ?  It  lingers  on  the  very  verge  of  the  vortex, 
then,  unpausing,  plunges  in.  Foamingly  furious,  it 
dashes  against  the  sharp  rocks,  and  darts  beyond 
them.  Scornfully  sweeping,  it  seethes  over  ambus- 
cades of  jagged  stone  below.  Through  tortuous 
channels  here,  through  wild  ways  there,  it  leads  its 
lithe  legion  undismayed,  and  the  demon  desert  is 
foiled  forever. 

Then  royally  raging,  a  king  with  dark  brows 
thoughtful,  the  Nile  sweeps  solemnly  away  from  the 
terrible  triumph  ;  but  caresses  palm-belted  Syene 
as  it  flies,  and  calms  itself  gradually  beyond,  among 
serene  green  shores. 

The  Ibis  reached  the  first  rapid.  The  swift  rush 
of  the  river,  and  the  favoring  wind,  held  it  a  long 
time  stationary.  Had  the  wind  lulled,  she  would 
have  swung  round  suddenly  with  the  stream,  and 


THE    CATARACT.  189 

plunged  against  the  rocks  that  hemmed  her — rocks 
watching  the  Ibis  as  inexorably  as  desert  monsters 
their  prey. 

Suddenly  a  score  of  savages  leaped,  shouting  and 
naked,  into  the  water,  and,  buffeting  the  rapid, 
reached  a  rock  with  a  rope.  This  they  clumsily 
attached  to  a  stump;  and  the  yelling  savages  on 
board  pulled  at  it,  and' drew  us  slowly  up.  Like 
imps  and  demons,  the  black  sinners  clambered  over 
the  sharp  points  and  along  the  rocks,  shouting  and 
plunging  into  the  rapid,  to  reach  another  rock — at 
home  as  much  in  the  black  water,  as  out  of  it — 
madly  dancing  and  deviling  about;  so  that,  survey- 
ing the  mummy-swathed  groups  on  deck,  and  the 
hopeless  shores,  and  the  dark  devils — the  Nile  was 
the  Nile  no  longer,  but  the  Styx — and  the  Ibis, 
Charon's  barque  of  death.  The  tumult  was  terrible. 
No  one  seemed  to  command,  and  the  superintendent 
kept  up  a  vigorous  application  of  the  kurbash  to 
the  adjacent  shoulders,  but  without  the  slightest 
practical  influence  upon  the  voyage.  In  the  hellish 
howling  of  the  rabble,  and  sure  swiftness  and  dash 
of  the  stream,  a  little  silent  sense  had  been  heavenly. 
For  the  channels  are  so  narrow,  that*it  needs  only 
a  strong  rope  and  a  strong  pull  to  insure  the  ascent. 

A  few  blocks,  beams,  and  pulleys,  upon  points 
where  a  purchase  is  necessary,  would  make  the 


190  NILE    NOTES. 

ascent  rapid  and  easy.  There  are,  at  this  point,  not 
more  than  four  or  five  rapids,  a  few  yards  wide  each 
one,  at  the  narrowest.  Between  these  hell-gates, 
there  is  room  to  sail,  if  there  be  wind  enough,  and 
if  not,  the  tracking,  with  many  men,  is  not  ar- 
duous.' 

The  poet  Martineau,  and  Belzoni,  are  at  issue 
upon  the  "  savage  faculty."  This  mystery,  of  which 
the  Howadji  could  never  discover  the  slightest  trace, 
charmed  the  poet  Harriet  particularly  at  this  point. 
Belzoni  says  of  these  men,  that  their  utmost  sagacity 
reaches  only  to  pulling  a  rope,  or  sitting  on  the 
extremity  of  a  ^ever,  as  a  counterpoise  ;  and  he  also, 
in  a  very  unpoetic  fervor,  declares  that,  in  point  of 
skill,  they  are  no  better  than  beasts.  Certainly  it 
would  be  strange  if  a  race  so  ignorant  and  clumsy 
in  all  things  else,  should  develop  fine  faculties  here 
These  demons  drew  the  Ibis  up  the  rapids,  as  they 
would  have  drawn  a  wagon  up  a  hilt — the  success 
and  the  lo  paeans  are  due  to  the  strength  of  the 
rope.  Had  the  poet  Harriet  ever  shot  the  sault 
Sainte  Marie  with  a  silent  Indian  in  a  birch  shell, 
she  might  have  beheld  and  chanted  the  "  savage 
faculty."  But  this  immense  misdirection  of  the 
force  of  a  hundred  or  more  men,  deserves  no  lyric. 

The  Ibis  was  drawn  through  two  rapids,  and  then 
rhe    captain   of   the   cataract   appeared    upon    the 


iHE    CATAUACT.  191 

shore,  mounted  on  a  donkey,  and  surrounded  by  <* 
staff  or  a  council  of  ministers,  similarly  mole-eyed 
and  grisly.  I  fancied,  at  first,  the  apparition  was 
only  a  party  of  mummies  donkeying  along  through 
the  cataract,  to  visit  some  friendly  Nubian  mummies 
in  the  hills  beyond.  For  the  cataract  is  a  kind  of 
"  wolf's  glen,"  and  phantoms  and  grotesque  ghosts 
of  every  kind  are  to  be  expected  ;  but  they  slid  off 
their  beasts,  and  shuffled  down  the  sand  slope  to  the 
shore,  and  sprang  aboard,  helping  up  the  most 
shriveled  of  mummies,  who  was  presented  to  the 
Howadji  as  the  father  of  the  captain  of  the  cataract ; 
and  it  was  clearly  expected  by  the  captain  and  the 
crew,  that  that  fact  would  be  recognized  in  a  flowing 
horn  of  brandy,  as  partly  discharging  the  world's 
debt  to  old  grisly,  for  begetting  that  pilot,  and  very 
reis  of  very  reises — 

"  Sing  George  the  Third,  and  not  the  least  in  worth, 
For  graciously  begetting  George  the  Fourth." 

The  brandy  was  served,  and  the  Howadji  stepped 
ashore  to  visit  Philae,  while  the  Ibis  cleared  the  rest 
of  the  rapids,  and  met  them  at  Mahratta,  the  first 
Nubian  village. 


XXVII. 


"BucKSHEESH  HowADJi — bucksheesh  Howadji,' 
welcomed  us  to  Nubia.  A  group  of  naked  little 
negroes  with  donkeys  awaited  us  on  the  bank,  and 
intoned  the  national  hymn,  "  alms,  0  shopkeeper," 
as  we  mounted  through  the  sand.  The  Howadji 
straddled  the  donkeys — for  you  do  not  mount  a  don- 
key more  than  you  would  a  large  dog — and,  sitting 
upon  a  thick  cloth,  the  steed's  only  trapping,  and 
nothing  but  the  Ho  wadji's.  nimble  management  of 
his  legs  to  keep  that  on,  away  we  went,  helter 
skelter,  over  the  sand — shamble,  trot,  canter, 
tumble,  up  again  and  ahead,  jerking,  and  shaking 
upon  the  little  beasts,  that  balanced  themselves 
along,  as  if  all  four  legs  at  once  were  necessary  to 
support  such  terrible  Howadji  weights. 

Away  we  dashed,  scrambling  along  the  bank. 
The  sky  cloudless — burning  the  sun — wild  the  waste 
shore.  Ledges  of  rock  lay  buried  in  the  sand,  and 
at  the  head  of  the  cataract,  its  Nubian  mouth,  a 


NUBIAN    WELCOME.  193 

palm-shaded  village.  Fantastically  frowning  every- 
where, the  chaos  of  rock,  and  beyond  and  among, 
the  river  in  shining  armor,  sinuous  in  the  foaming 
struggle. 

It  was  pure  desert — a  few  patches  of  green  grew 
miserable  in  the  sand,  forlorn  as  Christian  pilgrims 
in  Saracen  Jerusalem.  The  bold  formlessness  of 
the  cliffs  allured  the  eye.  Seen  from  the  shore, 
they  are  not  high ;  but  the  mighty  masses,  irre- 
gularly strewn  and  heaped,  crowding  and  concen- 
trating upon  the  river,  shrinking  along  the  shores, 
yet  strewn  in  the  stream,  and  boldly  buffeting  its 
fury,  are  fascinatingly  fantastic.  Your  eye,  so  long 
used  to  actual  silence,  and  a  sense  of  stillness  in  the 
forms  and  characters  of  the  landscape,  is  unnatural- 
]y  excited,  and  bounds  restlessly  from  rock  to  river, 
as  if  it  had  surprised  Nature  in  a  move,  and  should 
see  sudden  and  startling  changes.  The  Howadji  has 
caught  her  in  this  outlawed  corner,  before  her  ar- 
rangements were  completed.  She  is  setting  up  the 
furniture  of  her  scenery.  This  rock  is  surely  to  be 
shifted  there,  and  that  point  to  be  swept  away, 
here.  There  is  intense  expectation.  Ah !  if  the 
Howadji  had  not  travelled  in  vain,  but  should  really 
see  something  and  understand  the  secret  significance 
of  cataracts ! 

But  a  sudden  donkey-quake  wrecked  all  specula- 
0 


194  NILE    NOTES 

tion,  and  like  a  tower  shaken,  but  recovering  itself 
from  falling,  the  Howadji  allowed  the  quake  to 
"  reel  unheededly  away,"  and  alighted  quietly  upon 
his  left  leg,  while  the  liberated  donkey  smelt  about 
for  food  in  the  sand,  like  an  ass.  The  soaring  spe- 
culations of  the  moment  upon  the  text  of  the  pros- 
pect, had  made  the  Howadji  too  unmindful  that  the 
nimble  clinging  of  his  legs  to  the  donkey's  ribs  was 
the  sole  belly-band  of  his  cloth,  and  warrant  of  his 
seat ;  so  the  three  went  suddenly  asunder,  donkey, 
Howadji,  and  cloth,  but  reuniting,  went  forward 
again  into  Nubia,  an  uncertain  whole. 

The  barking  of  dogs  announced  our  arrival  at 
Mahratta,  the  first  Nubian  village.  Dull,  mud 
Syene  was  only  three  miles  distant  over  the  desert. 
Yet  here  mud  was  plaster,  smooth  and  neat,  and  the 
cleanliness  of  the  houses — a  certain  regular  grace  in 
them — the  unveiled  faces  of  the  women,  and  their 
determined  color — for  they  were  emphatically  black 
— made  Nubia  pleasant,  at  once  and  forever.  These 
women  braiding  baskets,  or  busily  spinning  in  the 
sun,  with  mild  features,  and  soft  eyes — their  woolly 
hair  frizzling  all  over  their  heads,  and  bright  bits  of 
metal  glittering  around  their  necks  and  in  their 
noses  and  ears,  were  genuine  Ethiopians  in  their 
own  land.  At  once  the  Howadji  felt  a  nobler, 
braver  race.  The  children  were  gayer  and  healthier. 


NUBIAN    WELCOME.  196 

I  saw  no  flies  feeding  upon  Nubian  eyes.  The 
Nubian  houses  are  square,  and  flat-roofed,  and  often 
palm-thatched.  Grain  jars  stood  around  them,  not 
unhandsomely,  and  mud  divans  built  against  the 
outer  walls  were  baked  by  the  sun  into  some  degree 
of  comfort.  We  paused  in  a  group  of  women  and 
children,  and  they  gave  us  courteously  to  drink. 
Then  we  rode  on,  our  route  reeling  always  between 
the  rocky  hills  and  the  roqky  river. 

Suddenly  at  high  noon,  at  the  end  of  a  tortuous 
rocky  vista,  and  a  mile  or  two  away,  stood  Philae — 
form  in  formlessness,  measured  sound  in  chaotic  dis- 
cord. For  a  moment  it  was  Greece  visible — all 
detail  was  devoured  by  distance,  which  is  enamored 
of  general  effect,  and  loves  only  the  essential  im- 
pression. It  was  a  more  wonderful  witchery  of 
that  wild  scenery,  a  rich  revelation  of  forms  as  fair 
as  Prospero  could  have  built  before  Ferdinand's 
eyes.  For  the  beauty  and  grace  of  Philas,  so  seen, 
in  that  stern  and  vivid  contrast  of  form  and  feeling, 
are  like  the  aerial  architecture  which  shone  sub- 
stantial before  the  Magician's  eyes,  as  imaging  the 
glory  of  the  world — and  whose  delicacy  sang  to 
Ferdinand,  when  he  knew  not  if  it  were  "  i'  the  air" 
or  on  the  earth. 

Philae,  so  delicately  drawn  upon  that  transparent 
noon  air,  was  an  ecstacy  of  form.  There  were  only 


196  NILE    NOTES. 

architraves  and  ranges  of  columns  among  the  black 
beetling  rocks.  It  soothed  the  eye ;  for  in  chaoa 
here  was  creation  And  even  broken  columns, 
stately  still — ranging  along  a  river — ure  as  pleasant 
to  the  eye  as  water-flowers. 


XXVIII. 

PHILJ1. 

I  WISH  Philae  were  as  lovely  as  the  melody  of  its 
name  imports.  But  I  do  not  dare  to  call  Isis  by 
the  name  of  Venus — or  if  the  Palmyrene  Zenobia, 
following  the  triumph  of  Aurelian,  was  pretty — 
then  is  Philae  chained  to  the  car  of  time,  lovely. 
Poet  Eliot  Warburton,  indeed,  speaks  of  its  "  ex- 
quisite beauty."  What  shall  the  Howadji  do  with 
these  poets  ? 

Girdled  with  the  shining  Nile,  Philae  is  an  austere 
beauty — Isis-like,  it  sits  solemn-browed,  column 
crushing  column,  pylons  yet  erect,  and  whole  sides 
of  temple  courts  yet  standing  with  perfect  pillars — . 
huge  decay,  wherein  grandeur  is  yet  grand.  It  is 
strange  to  see  human  traces  so  lovely  in  a  spot  so 
lonely.  Strange,  afte"r  the  death  in  life  of  the  Nile 
valley,  to  emerge  upon  life  in  death  so  imperial  as 
Philee.  For  you  remember  that  the  Ibis  did  not 
pause  at  the  temples,  but  beheld  Thebes  and  Den- 
dereh,  as  she  flew,  like  pictures  fading  on  the  air. 


198  NILE    NOTES. 

Seen  from  the  shore,  a  band  of  goldenest  green 
surrounds  the  island  The  steep  bank  is  lithe  with 
lupin  and  flowering  weeds.  Palms  are  tangled,  as 
they  spring,  with  vines  and  creepers,  dragon-flies 
float  sparkling  all  over  it — and  being  the  sole  verdure 
in  that  desolation,  the  shores  of  Philae  are  gra- 
cious as  blue  sky  after  storms.  A  party  of  naked 
young  Nubians  rowed  us  over  in  a  huge  tub  of  a 
boat,  which,  with  their  bent  boughs  of  trees  for 
oars  they  could  scarcely  keep  against  the  current. 
They  had  a  young  crocodile  for  toy,  with  which 
they  played  with  as  much  delight  as  with  a  kitten. 
The  infant  dragon  was  ten  days  old,  and  about  a 
foot  long.  It  sprawled  sluggishly  about  the  bot- 
tom of  the  boat,  as  its  mature  relatives  stretch  in- 
dolently along  the  sandy  shores,  and  the  boys  de- 
lighted to  push  it  back  with  a  stick  as  it  crawled 
feebly  up  the  side.  There  was  no  special  malice 
in  it  at  this  treatment.  Dragon  seemed  to  know 
perfectly  that  he  was  born  heir  to  a  breakfast  upon 
some  of  his  tormentors,  or  their  near  relatives,  and 
that  the  fun  would  be  one  day  quite  the  other  side 
of  his  mouth,  into  which  our'  young  friends  thrust 
sticks  and  stones,  not  perceiving,  the  innocents  ' 
that  they  were  simply  rehearsing  their  own  fate. 
The  Howadji  wished  to  sacrifice  it  to  Osiris  as  they 
stepped  ashore  upon  his  island,  but  reflected  that  it 


PHIL.E.  199 

was  a  bad  precedent  to  sacrifice  one  god  to  another 
— and  wound  through  the  crimson-eyed  lupin,  the 
wild  bean,  and  a  few  young  palms  that  fringe  the 
island,  up  to  the  ruins. 

The  surface  of  the  island  is  a  mass  of  ruin.  But 
the  great  temple  of  Isis  yet  stands,  although  it  is 
shattered,  and  a  smaller  Hypethral  temple  over- 
hangs the  river.  It  is  not  inarticulate  ruin,  but 
while  whole  walls,  and  architraves,  and  column- 
ranges  remain,  several  buildings  are  shattered,  and 
their  fallen  walls  are  blended.  • 

Philse  was  the  holy  island  of  old  Egypt.  Thither 
sailed  processions  of  higher  purpose,  in  barques 
more  gorgeous  than  now  sail  the  river,  and  deep 
down-gazing  in  the  moonlight  Nile,  the  poet  shall 
see  the  vanished  jjglendor  of  a  vanished  race,  cen- 
treing solemnly  here,  like  priestly  pomp  around  an 
altar.  Hither,  bearing  gifts,  came  kneeling  Magi, 
before  they  repaired  to  the  Bethlehem  manger. 
And  kings,  not  forgotten  of  fame,  here  unkinged 
themselves  before  a  kinglier.  For  the  island  was 
dedicate  to  Osiris,  the  great  God  of  the  Egyptians, 
who  were  not  idolaters,  as  far  as  appears,  but  re- 
garded Osiris  as  the  incarnation  of  the  goodness  of 
the  unutterable  God  of  gods. 

But  it  were  easier  for  a  novice  to  trace  the  temple 
lines  among  these  ruins,  than  for  an  ordinary  How- 


200  NILE    NOTES. 

adji  to  evolve  lucidity  from  the  intricacy  of  the  old 
Egyptian  theology.  And  we  who  stroll  these 
shores,  pilgrims  of  beauty  only,  cannot  pause  to 
lose  ourselves  in  the  darkness,  and  ruin,  and  inodor- 
ous intricacy  of  the  labyrinth,  like  mere  explorers 
of  the  Pyramids.  We  know  very  little  of  the 
Egyptian  theology,  and  that  little  is  ill  told.  Had 
I  graduated  at  Heliopolis,  I  would  have  reveal- 
ed to  you  all.  But  many  there  be,  who  not  having 
taken  degrees  at  Heliopolis  or  Memphis,  do  yet 
treat  of  these  things.  Books  abound  wherewith 
the  Howadji,  in  his  dahabieh  on  the  Nile,  or  in  the 
warm  slippers  at  home,  may  befog  his  brain,  and 
learn  as  much  of  the  religious  as  of  the  political 
history  of  Egypt. 

What  did  the  tenth  king  of  the  seventeenth  dy- 
nasty for  the  world  ?  nay,  why  was  Ramses  great  ? 
Ah,  confess  that  you  love  to  linger  with  Cleopatra 
more  than  with  Isis,  and  adore  Memnon  more  will- 
ingly than  Amun  Re  !  Swart  Cleopatra,  superbly 
wound  in  Damascus  silks  and  Persian  shawls,  going 
gorgeously  down  the  Nile  in  a  golden  gondola  to 
meet  Marc  Antony,  had  more  refreshed  my  eyes 
than  Sesostris  returning  victorious  from  the  Gan- 
ges. Ramses  may  have  sacrificed  to  Isis,  as  Cleo- 
patra to  Venus.  But  in  the  highest  heaven  all  di- 
vinities are  equal. 


PHIL.E.  201 

Isis  was  the  daughter  of  Time,  and  the  wife  and 
sister  of  Osiris.  Horus  was  their  child,  and  they 
are  the  Trinity  of  Philse.  Osiris  and  Isis  finally 
judged  the  dead,  and  were  the  best  beloved  gods 
of  the  ancients,  and  best  known  of  the  moderns. 
Yet  the  devil  Typhoo  vanquished  Osiris,  who  lies 
buried  in  the  cataract,  which  henceforth  will  be  an 
emblem  to  the  poetic  Howadji  of  the  stern  struggle 
of  the  good  and  bad  Principles.  And  gradually,  as 
he  meditates  upon  Osiris  and  Egypt,  and  a  race  de- 
parted, one  of  the  fine  old  fancies  of  the  elder 
Egyptians  will  grow  into  faith  with  him,  and  he 
will  see  in  the  annual  overflow  of  the  river  the  an- 
nual resurrection  of  the  good  Osiris  to  bless  the 
land.  Tradition  buried  Osiris  in  the  cataract,  and 
the  solemn  Egyptian  oath,  was  "  by  him  who 
sleeps  in  Philae."  Here  was  the  great  temple^ 
erected  to  his  mourning  widow,  and  sculptured 
gigantically  upon  the  walls,  the  cow-horned,  ever 
mild-eyed  Isis,  holds  her  Horns  and  deplores  her 
spouse. 

Very  beautiful  is  Isis  in  all  Egyptian  sculptures. 
Tenderly  tranquil  her  large  generous  features,  gra- 
cious her  full-lipped  mouth,  divine  the  dignity  of 
her  mien.  In  the  groups  of  fierce  fighters  and 
priests,  and  beasts  and  bird-headed  gods  that  peo- 
ple the  walls,  her  asnect  is  always  serene  and  solao- 

9* 


202  NILE    NOTE 

ing — the    type   of   the   feminine  principle  in    the 
beast  and  bird  chaos  of  the  world. 

The  temples  are  of  Ptolemaic  times,  and,  of  course, 
modern  for  Egypt,  although  traces  of  earlier  build- 
ings are  still  discoverable.  The  cartouche,  or  cipher 
of  Cleopatra — our  Cleopatra — among  the  many  of 
Egypt,  appears  here.  The  ruins  are  stately  and 
imposing,  and  one  range  of  thirty  columns  yet  re- 
mains. The  capitals,  as  usual,  are  different  flowers. 
The  lotus,  the  acacia,  and  others,  are  wreathed 
around  and  among  them.  Desaix's  inscription  is 
upon  the  wall,  with  its  republican  date ;  and  that 
of  Pope  Gregory  XVI. — the  effete  upon  the  effete. 

The  Howadji  wandered  among  the  temples.  The 
colored  ceilings,  the  columned  courts,  the  rude 
sculptures  of  beasts,  and  birds,  and  flowers — rude  in 
execution,  but  in  idea  very  lofty — the  assembling 
and  consecration  of  all  nature  to  the  rulers  of  nature 
— these  were  grand  and  imposing.  Xor  less  so  in 
their  kind,  the  huge  masses  of  stone  so  accurately 
carved,  whereof  the  temples  were  built.  For  the 
first  time,  at  Philae,  we  practically  felt  the  massive- 
ness  of  the  Egyptian  architecture.  These  temples 
scorn  and  defy  time,  as  the  immovable  rocks  the 
river.  Yet  the  river,  and  time,  wear  them  each 
slowly — but  how  slowly — away.  "We  saw  the  sin- 
gular strength  of  the  buildings,  and  the  precision 


.  203 

of  their  construction,  by  climbing  the  roof,  by  a 
narrow  staircase  built  in  the  wall  of  the  great 
temple.  The  staircase  emerges  upon  the  roof,  over 
the  adytum,  or  holy  of  holies,  with  which,  singular 
email  apertures  communicate.  Conveniences  for 
the  gods,  were  these?  -Divine  whispering-tubes? 
Private  entrances  of  the  spirit  ?  Scuttles  for  Osiris 
and  the  fair  Isis  ;  or  part  of  the  stage-scenery  of  the 
worship,  wherethrough  priests  whispered  for  gods, 
and  men  were  cozened  by  men  ? 

Ah !  Verde  Giovane !  fragments  of  whose  pleasant 
Philce  breakfast  are  yet  visible  on  this  roof — Time 
loves  his  old  tale,  and  tells  it  forever  over.  Has 
not  the  Howadji  seen,  in  Rome,  the  Pope,  or  spiritual 
papa  of  the  world,  sitting  in  a  wooden  kneeling 
figure,  and  playing  pray  under  that  very  burning 
eye  of  heaven — an  Italian  sun,  of  a  June  noonday? 

The  Arab  boys  crouched  in  their  blankets  in  the 
sun,  upon  the  roof,  as  if  it  were  cold ;  for,  to  the 
Egyptian,  clothes  are  too  much  a  luxury  not  to  be 
carefully  used,  when  he  has  any.  They  smoked 
their  pipes  carelessly,  incuriously,  as  if  they  were 
sculptures  upon  one  wall,  and  the  Howadji  upon 
another.  Pleasant,  the  sunny  loitering,  with  no 
cicerone  to  disgust,  lost  in  mild  musing  meditation, 
the  moonlight  of  the  mind.  You  will  have  the  same 
red  book,  or  another,  whe  i  you  loiter,  and  thence 


204  NILE    NOTES. 

learn  the  details,  and  the  long  list  of  Ptolemies,  and 
Euergetes,  who  built,  and  added,  and  amended. 
Thence,  too,  you  will  learn  the  translations  of 
hieroglyphics — the  theories,  and  speculations,  and 
other  dusty  stuff  inseparable  from  ruins. 

You  will  be  grave  at  Philae,  how  serenly  sunny 
soever  the  day  ;  but  with  a  gravity  graver  than  that 
of  sentiment;  for  it  is  the  deadliest  of  the  death  of 
the  land  that  you  will  feel.  The  ruins  will  be,  to 
you,  the  remains  of  the  golden  age  of  Egypt ;  for 
hither  came  Thales,  Solon,  Pythagoras,  Herodotus, 
and  Plato,  and,  from  the  teachers  of  Moses,  learned 
the  most  mystic  secrets  of  human  thought.  It  is 
the  faith  of  Philae  that,  developed  in  a  thousand 
ways,  claims  our  mental  allegiance  to-day — a  faith 
transcending  its  teachers,  as  the  sun  the  eyes  which 
it  enlightens.  These  wise  men  came — the  wise  men 
of  Greece,  whose  wisdom  was  Egyptian  ;  and  hither 
comes  the  mere  American  Howadji,  and  learns,  but 
,  with  a  difference.  He  feels  the  greatness  of  a  race 
departed.  He  recognizes  that  a  man  only  differently 
|  featured  from  himself,  lived  and  died  here  two 
'u  '  thousand  years  ago. 

Ptolemy  and  his  Cleopatra  walked  these  terraces  ; 
sought  shelter  from  this  same  sun,  in  the  shade  of 
these  same  columns ;  dreamed  over  the  calm  river, 
at  sunset,  by  moonlight ;  drained  their  diamond- 


PHIL-EJ.  205 

rimmed  goblet  of  life  and  love ;  then,  embdmed  in 
sweet  spices,  were  laid  dreamless  in  beautiful  tombs. 
Remembering  these  things,  glide  gently  from  Philee, 
for  we  shall  see  it  no  more.  Slowly,  slowly  south- 
ward loiters  the  Ibis,  and  leaves  its  columned  shores 
behind.  Glide  gently  from  Philae  ;  but  it  will  not 
glide  from  you.  Like  a  queen  crowned  in  death, 
among  Tier  dead  people,  it  will  smile  sadly  through 
your  memory  forever. 


XXIX. 

A   CROW   THAT   FLIES   IN  HEAVEN'S 
SWEETEST   AIR, 

FLEETLY  the  Ibis  flew.  The  divine  days  came 
and  went.  Unheeded  the  longing  sunrise,  the  lin- 
gering eve.  Unheeded  the  lonely  shore  of  Nubia, 
that  swept,  sakia-singing,  seaward.  Unheeded  the 
new  world  of  African  solitude,  the  great  realm  of 
Ethiopia.  Unheeded  the  tropic  upon  which,  for 
the  first  time,  we  really  entered ;  and  the  pylons, 
columns,  and  memorial  walls,  that  stood  solitary  in 
the  sand.  The  Howadji  lay  ill  in  the  blue  cabin, 
and  there  is  no  beauty,  no  antiquity,  no  new  world, 
to  an  eye  diseased. 

Yet  illness,  said  a  white-haired  form  that  sat 
shadowy  by  his  side,  hath  this  in  it,  that  it  smooths 
the  slope  to  death.  The  world  is  the  organization 
of  vital  force ;  but  when  a  man  sickens,  the  substan- 
tial reality  reels  upon  his  brain.  The  cords  are  cut 
that  held  him  to  the  ship  that  sails  so  proudly  the 
seas,  and  he  drifts  lonely  in  the  jolly-boat  of  his 


A   cuow.  207 

own  severed  existence,  toward  shores  unknown. 
Drifts,  not  unwillingly,  as  he  sweeps  farther  away, 
and  his  eyes  are  darkened. 

After  acute  agony,  said  still  the  white-haired 
shadow,  pausing  slowly,  as  if  he,  too,  were  once  alive 
and  young;  death  is  like  sleep  after  toil.  After 
long  decay,  it  is  as  natural  as  sunset.  Yet  to  sit 
rose-garlanded  at  the  feast  of  love  and  beauty,  your- 
self the  lover,  and  the  most  beautiful,  and  hearing 
that  you  shall  depart  thence  in  a  hearse,  not  in  a 
bridal  chariot,  to  rise  smilingly  and  go  gracefully 
away,  is  a  rare  remembrance  for  any  man — an  heroic 
death  that  does  not  often  occur  nor  is  it  to  be 
rashly  wished.  For  the  heroic  death,  is  the  gods' 
gift  to  their  favorites.  Who  shall  be  presumptuous 
enough  to  claim  that  favor.  Nay,  if  all  men  were 
heroes,  how  hard  it  would  be  to  die  and  leave  them; 
for  our  humanity  loves  heroes  more  than  angels  and 
saints.  It  would  be  the  discovery  of  a  bound- 
less California,  and  gold  would  be  precious  no 
more. 

The  shadow  was  silent,  and  the  Nubian  moon- 
light crept  yellow  along  the  wall ;  then,  playing 
upon  the  Howadji's  heart-strings  vaguely  and  at 
random,  as  a  dreaming  artist  touching  the  keys  of 
an  instrument,  he  proceeded.  Yet  we  may  all  know 
how  many  more  the  dead  are  than  the  living,  nor  be 


208  NILE    NOTES. 

afraid  to  join  them.  Here,  in  Egypt,  it  is  tombs 
which  are  inhabited,  it  is  the  cities  which  are  de- 
serted. The  great  Ramses  has  died,  and  all  his 
kingdom — why  not  little  you  and  I?  Nor  care  to 
lie  in  a  tomb  so  splendid.  Ours  shall  be  a  sky- 
vaulted  mausoleum,  sculptured  with  the  figures  of 
all  life.  No  man  of  mature  years  but  has  'more 
friends  dead  than  living.  His  friendly  reunion  is  a 
shadowy  society.  Who  people  for  him  the  tranquil 
twilight  and  the  summer  dawn  ?  In  the  woods  we 
knew,  what  forms  and  faces  do  we  see  ?  What  is 
the  meaning  of  music,  and  who  are  its  persons? 
What  are  the  voices  of  midnight,  and  what  words 
slide  into  our  minds,  like  sudden  moonlight  into 
dark  chambers,  and  apprise  us  that  we  move  in  the 
vast  society  of  all  worlds  and  all  times,  and  that  if 
the  van  is  lost  to  our  eyes  in  the  dazzling  dawn,  and 
the  rear  disappears  in  the  shadow  of  night  our 
mother,  and  our  comrades  fall  away  from  our  sides 
— the  van,  and  the  rear,  and  the  comrades  are  yet, 
and  all,  moving  forward  like  the  water-drops  of  the 
Amazon  to  the  sea.  It  is  not  strange  that  when 
severe  sickness  comes,  we  are  ready  to  die.  Long 
buffeted  by  bleak,  blue  icebergs,  we  see  at  last 
with  equanimity  that  we  are  sailipg  into  Symmes's 
hole. 

The  Nubian  moonlight  crept  yellow  along  the 


A    CROW.  209 

wall,  but  the  monotonous  speech  of  the  white-haired 
mystery  went  sounding  on,  like  the  faint  far  noise 
of  the  cataract  below  Philae 

Otherwise  nature  were  unkind.  She  smooths 
the  slope,  because  she  is  ever  gentle.  For  to  turn 
us  out  of  doors  suddenly  and  unwillingly  into  the 
night,  were  worse  than  a  cursing  father.  But  na- 
ture can  never  be  as  bad  as  man.  What  boots  it 
that  faith  follows  our  going  with  a  rush  lantern, 
and  hope  totters  before  with  a  lucifer  ?  Shrewd, 
sad  eyes  have  scrutinized  those  lights,  and  whis- 
pered only,  "  It  is  the  dancing  of  will-o'-the-wisps 
among  the  tombs."  It  is  only  the  gift  of  nature 
that  we  die  well,  as  that  we  are  born  well.  It  is 
nature  that  unawes  death  to  us,  and  makes  it  wel- 
come and  pleasant  as  sleep. 

A  mystery ! 

But  if  you  say  that  it  is  the  dim  dream  of  the 
future,  wrought  into  the  reality  of  faith,  that 
smooths  death — then  that  dream  and  faith  are  the 
devices  of  nature,  like  these  enticing  sculptures 
upon  tomb  avenues,  to  lead  us  gently  down.  For  I 
find  that  all  men  are  cheered  by  this  dream,  although 
its  figures  are  as  the  men.  There  are  gardens  ami 
houris,  or  hunting-grounds  and  exhaustless  deer,  or 
crystal  cities  where  white-robed  pilgrims  sing 
hymns  forever — (howbeit  after  Egypt  no  philoso- 


210  NILE    NOTES. 

phic  Howadji  will  hold  that  long  white  garments 
are  of  heaven). 

The  flickering  form  waved  a  moment  in  the  moon- 
light and  resumed. 

Heaven  is  a  hint  of  nature,  and  therein  shall  we 
feel  how  ever  kind  she  is — opening  the  door  of  death 
into  golden  gloom,  she  points  to  the  star  that  gilds 
it.  She  does  this  to  all  men,  and  in  a  thousand 
ways.  But  in  all  lands  are  seers  who  would  mono- 
polize the  seeing — Bunyan  pilots,  sure  you  will 
ground  in  the  gloom  except  you  embark  in  their 
ship,  and  with  their  treatise  of  navigation.  Mean- 
while the  earth  has  more  years  than,  are  yet  com- 
puted, and  the  Bunyan  pilots  are  of  the  threescore 
and  ten  species. 

Priests  and  physicians  agree,  that  at  last  all  men 
die  bravely,  and  we  are  glad  to  listen.  0  Howadji 
that  bravery  was  ours.  We  should  be  as  brave  as 
the  hundred  of  any  chance  crowd,  and  so  indirectly 
we  know  how  we  should  die,  even  if,  at  some  time, 
death  has  not  looked  closely  at  us  over  the  shoul- 
der, and  said  audibly  what  we  knew — that  he  held 
the  fee  simple  of  our  existence. 

The  Nubian  moonlight  waned  along  the  wall. 
We  praise  our  progress,  said  the  white-haired 
shadow,  yet  know  no  more  than  these  Egyptians 
knew.  We  say  that  we  feel  we  are  happier,  and 


A    CROW.  211 

that  the  many  are  wiser  and  better,  simply  because 
we  are  alive,  and  they  are  mummies,  arid  life  is 
warmer  than  death.  The  seeds  of  the  world  were 
sown  along  these  shores.  There  is  none  lovelier 
than  Helen,  nor  wiser  than  Plato,  nor  better  than 
Jesus.  They  were  children  of  the  sun,  and  of  an 
antiquity  that  already  fades  and  glimmers  upon  our 
eyes. 

Venus  is  still  the  type  of  beauty — our  philoso- 
phy is  diluted  Platonism — our  religion  is  an  imita- 
tion of  Christ.  The  forms  of  our  furniture  are 
delicately  designed  upon  the  walls  of  Theban  tombs. 
Thales,  after  his  return  from  Egypt,  determined  the 
sun's  orbit,  and  gave  us  our  year.  Severe  study 
detects  in  Egyptian  sculptures  emblems  of  our 
knowledge  and  our  skill.  Have  you,  O  Howadji, 
new  ideas,  or  only  different  developments  of  the  old 
ones?  As  the  Ibis  bears  you  southward,  are  you 
proud  and  compassionate  of  your  elders  and  your 
masters — or  do  you  feel  simply  that  the  earth  is 
round,  and  that  if  in  temperate  regions  the  homely 
lark  soars  and  sings,  in  the  tropics  the  sumptuous 
plumage  of  silent  birds  is  the  glittering  translation 
of  that  song  ? 

Have  you  mastered  the  mystery  of  death — have 
you  even  guessed  its  meaning  ?  Are  Mount  Auburn 
and  Greenwood  truer  teachers  than  the  Theban 


212  NILE    NOTES. 

tombs?  Nature  adorns  death.  Even  sets  in  smiles 
the  face  that  shall  smile  no  more.  But  you  group 
around  it  hideous  associations,  and  of  the  pale 
phantom  make  an  appalling  apparition.  Broken 
columns — inverted  torches — weeping  angels  and 
willows  are  within  the  gates  upon  which  you  write, 
"Whoso  believeth  in  me  shall  never  die."  Black- 
ness and  knolling  bells,  weepers  and  hopeless  scraps 
of  Scripture,  these  are  the  heavy  stones  that  we 
roll  against  the  sepulchres  in  which  lie  those  whom 
you  have  baptized  in  his  name,  who  came  to  abolish 
death. 

Why  should  not  you  conspire  with  nature  to 
keep  death  beautiful,  nor  dare,  when  the  soul  has 
soared,  to  dishonor,  by  the  emblems  of  decay,  the 
temple  it  has  consecrated  and  honored.  Lay  it 
reverently,  and  pleasantly  accompanied,  in  the 
earth,  and  there  leave  it  forever,  nor  know  of  skulls 
or  cross-bones.  Nor  shall  willows  weep  for  a  tree 
that  is  greener — nor  a  broken  column  symbolize  a 
work  completed — nor  inverted  flame  a  pure  fire 
ascending.  Better  than  all,  burn  it  with  incense  at 
morning — so  shall  the  mortal  ending  be  not  un- 
worthy the  soul,  nor  without  significance  of  the 
soul's  condition.  Tears,  like  smiles,  are  of  nature, 
and  will  not  be  repressed.  They  are  sacred,  and 
should  fall  with  flowers  upon  the  dead.  But  forget- 


A    CROW.  •        213 

ting  grave-yards  and  cemeteries,  how  silent  and 
solemn  soever,  treasure  the  dearest  dust  in  sacred 
urns,  so  holding  in  your  homes  forever  those  who 
have  not  forfeited,  by  death,  the  rights  of  home. 

The  wan,  white-haired  shadow  wasted  in  the  yel- 
low moonlight. 

But  all  illness  is  not  unto  death.  Much  is  rather 
like  dark,  stony  caves  of  meditation  by  the  wayside 
of  life.  There  is  no  carousing  there,  no  Kushuk 
Arnem  and  Ghawazee  dancing,  but  pains  as  of 
corded  hermits  and  starving  ascetics.  Yet  the  her- 
mit  has  dreams  that  the  king  envies.  We  come 
thousands  of  miles  to  see  strange  lands,  wonderful 
cities,  and  haunts  of  fame.  But  in  a  week's  illness 
in  the  blue  cabin  or  elsewhere,  cities  of  more  shin- 
ing towers  and  ponderous  palace-ranges,  lands  of 
more  wondrous  growth  and  races  than  ever  Cook 
or  Columbus  discovered,  or  the  wildest  dreamer 
dreamed,  dawn  and  die  along  the  brain.  To  those 
golden  gates  and  shores  sublime  no  palmy  Nile 
conducts — not  even  the  Euphrates  or  Tigris,  nor 
any  thousands  of  miles,  would  bring  the  traveller  to 
that  sight.  Sick  Sinbad,  travelling  only  from  one 
side  of  his  bed  to  the  other,  could  have  told  tales 
stranger  and  more  fascinating  than  enchanted  his 
gaping  guests. 

Ah !    could  we   tame   the   fantastic  genius  that 


214  NILE    NOTES. 

only  visits  us  with  fever  for  the  entertainment  of 
our  health,  we  could  well  spare  the  descriptive 
poets,  nor  read  Vathek  and  Hafiz  any  more.  But 
he  is  untameable,  until  his  brother  of  sleep,  that 
good  genius  who  gives  us  dreams,  wilk  consent  to 
serve  our  waking — until  stars  shine  at  noonday — 
until  palms  wave  along  the  Hudson  shores. 


XXX. 

SOUTHWARD, 

THE  Nubians  devote  themselves  to  nudity  and  to 
smearing  their  hair  with  castor  oil. 

At  least  it  seems  so  from  the  river.  Nor  have 
they  much  chance  to  do  any  thing  else  ;  for  Nubia 
only  exists  by  the  grace  of  the  desert  or  the  persist- 
ence of  the  Nile  in  well-doing.  It  is  a  narrow  strip  of 
green  between  the  mountains  on  both  sides,  and  the 
river.  Often  it  is  only  the  mere  slope  of  the  bank 
which  is  green.  You  ascend  through  that,  pushing 
aside  the  flowering  lupin  and  beans,  and  stand  at 
the  top  of  the  bank  in  the  desert.  Often  the  desert 
stretches  to  the  stream,  and  defies  it,  shoring  it 
with  sheer  sand.  A  few  taxed  palms,  a  few  taxed 
sakias,  the  ever  neat  little  houses,  the  comely  black 
race,  and,  walling  all,  the  inexorable  mountains, 
rocky,  jagged,  of  volcanic  outline  and  appearance — 
these  are  the  few  figures  of  the  Nubian  panorama. 

Dates,  baskets,  mats,  the  gum  and  charcoal  of  the 
mimosa,  a  little  senna,  and,  farther  south,  ebony, 


216  NILE    NOTES. 

sandal-wood,  rice,  sugar,  and  slaves,  are  all  the 
articles  of  commerce — lupins,  beans,  and  dhourra,  a 
kind  of  grain,  the  crops  of  consumption. 

It  is  a  lonely,  solitary  land.  There  are  no  flights 
of  birds,  as  in  Egypt ;  no  wide  valley  reaches, 
greened  with  golden  plenty.  Scarce  a  sail  whitens 
the  yellow-blue  of  the  river.  A  few  solitary  cam- 
els and  donkeys  pass,  spectral,  upon  the  shore.  It 
seems  stiller  than  Egypt,  where  the  extent  of  the 
crops,  the  frequent  villages,  and  constant  population, 
relieve  the  sense  of  death.  In  Nubia,  it  is  tho 
silence  of  intense  suspense.  The  unyielding  moun- 
tains range  along  so  near  the  river,  that  the  How- 
adji  fears  the  final  triumph  of  the  desert. 

Like  a  line  of  fortresses  stretched  against  the  foe, 
stand  the  sakias — the  allies  of  the  river.  But  their 
ceaseless  sigh,  as  in  Egypt,  only  saddens  the  silence. 
Through  the  great  gate  of  the  cataract,  you  enter  a 
new  world,  south  of  the  poet's  "farthest  south." 
A  sad,  solitary,  sunny,  world ;  but  bravery  and  the 
manly  virtues  are  always  the  dower  of  poor  races, 
who  must  roughly  rough  it  to  exist. 

In  appearance  and  character,  the  Nubians  are  the 
superiors  of  the  Egyptians.  But  they  are  subject  to 
them  by  the  inscrutable  law  that  submits  the  dark- 
er races  to  the  whiter,  the  world  over.  The  sweet- 
i>ess,  and  placidity,  and  fidelity,  the  love  of  country 


SOUTHWARD.  217 

and  family,  the  simplicity  of  character  and  conduct 
which  distinguish  them,  are  not  the  imperial  pow- 
ers of  a  people.  Like  the  Savoyards  into  Europe, 
the  Nubians  go  down  into  Egypt  and  fill  inferior 
offices  of  trust.  They  are  the  most  valued  of  ser- 
vants, but  never  lose  their  home-longing,  and 
return  into  the  strange,  sultry  silence  of  Nubia, 
when  they  have  been  successful  in  Egypt. 

Yet  the  antique  Ethiopian  valor  survives.  Divers 
districts  are  still  warlike  and  the  most  savage  strug- 
gles are  not  unknown.  The  Ethiopians  once  re 
sisted  the  Romans,  and  the  fame  of  one-eyed  Queen 
Gandace,  whose  wisdom  and  valor  gave  the  name 
to  her  successors,  yet  flourishes  in  the  land,  and  the 
remains  of  grand  temples  attest  that  the  great 
Ramses  and  the  proud  Ptolemies  thought  it  worth 
while  to  own  it.  The  Nubians  bear  arms,  but  all 
of  the  rudest  kind — crooked  knives,  iron-shod  clubs, 
slings,  and  a  shield  of  hippopotamus  hide — and  in 
the  battles  the  women  mingle-and  assist. 

Yet  in  the  five  hundred  miles  from  Syene  to 
Dongola,  not  more  than  one  hundred  thousand 
inhabitants  are  estimated.  They  reckon  seven  hun- 
dred sakias  for  that  distance,  and  that  each  is  equal 
to  one  thousand  five  hundred  bushels  of  grain. 

These  shores  are  the  very  confines  of  civilization. 

The  hum  of  the  world  has  died  away  into  stillness. 
10 


218  NILE    NOTES. 

The  sun  shines  brightly  in  Nubia.     The  sky  is  blue, 
but  the  sadness  of  the  land  rests  like  a  shadow  upon 
the  Howadji.     It  is  like  civilization  dying  decently. 
The  few  huts  and  the  few  people,  smile  and  look 
contented.     They  come  down  to  the  shore,  as  the 
Ibis  skims  along,  wonderingly  and  trustfully  as  the 
.  soft-souled  southern  savages  beheld,  with  curiosity, 
Columbus'  fleet.     They  are  naked  and  carry  clubs, 
and  beg  powder  and  arms,  but  sit  quietly  by  your 
side  as  you  sketch  or  sit  upon  the  shore,  or  run  like 
hunting-dogs  for  the  pigeons  you  have  shot.     If 
there  be  any  impossible  shot,  the  Howadji  is  called 
upon  with  perfect  confidence  to  execute  it ;  for  a 
clothed  Howadji  with  a  gun  is  a  denizen  of  a  loftier 
sphere  to  the  nude  Nubians.     Why  does  the  sun 
so  spoil  its  children  and  fondle  their  souls  away? 
How  neat  are  their  homes,  like  houses  set  in  order ! 
For  the  mighty  desert  frowns  behind,  and  the  crush- 
ing  government   frowns   below.     Yet   the    placid 
Nubian   looks   from    his   taxed    sakia  to  his  taxed 
palms,  sees  the  sand  and  the  tax-gatherer  stealing 
upon  his  substance,  and  quietly  smiles,  as  if  his  land 
were  a  lush-vineyarded  Rhine-bank. 

The  Howadji  had  left  the  little,  feline  reis  at 
Syene,  his  home  ;  for  the  indolent  Nubian  blood  was 
mingled  in  his  veins,  and  made  him  seem  always 
this  quiet  land  personified.  The  Ibis  flew,  piloted 


SOUTHWARD.  219 

by  a  native  Nubian,  who  knew  the  river  through 
his  country.  For  here  the  shores  are  stony,  and 
there  are  two  difficult  passages,  which  the  natives 
call  half-cataracts. 

Hassan  was  a  bright-eyed,  quiet  personage,  who 
discharged  his  functions  very  humbly,  sitting  with 
the  Ancient  Mariner  at  the  helm,  who  seemed,  grisly 
Egyptian,  half  jealous  of  his  Nubian  colleague,  and 
contemptuously  remarked,  when  we  reached  Philae, 
returning,  that  no  man  need  go  twice  to  know  the 
river.  The  men  were  uneasy  at  the  absence  of 
their  head,  nor  liked  to  be  directed  by  the  Nubian, 
or  the  Ancient  Mariner ;  but  Hassan  sang  with  them 
such  scraps  of  Arabic  song  as  he  knew,  and  regaled 
them  with  pure  Nubian  melodies,  which  are  sweeter 
than  those  of  Egypt,  for  the  Nubians  are  much  more 
musical  than  their  neighbors,  and  in  a  crew,  they 
are  the  best  and  most  exhilarating  singers.  He  sat 
patiently  on  the  prow  for  hours,  watching  the  river, 
calling  at  times  to  Grisly  to  turn  this  way  and 
that,  and  Hassan  was  uniformly  genial  and  gentle, 
pulling  an  occasional  oar,  returning. 

For  the  rest  he  was  clothed  in  coarse,  white  cot 
ton,  haunted  the  kitchen  after  dinner,  and  fared 
sumptuously  every  day.     Then  begged  tobacco  of 
the  Howadji,  and  smoked  it  as  serenely  as  if  it  were 
decentlv  gotten. 


?20  NILE    NOTES. 

At  Kdlabsheh  we  passed  the  Tropic  of  Cancer. 

But  are  not  the  tropics  the  synonym  of  Paradise? 
The  tropics,  mused  the  Howadji,  and  instantly 
imagination  was  entangled  in  an  Indian  jungle,  and 
there  struggled,  fettered  in  glorious  foliage,  mistak- 
ing the  stripes  and  eyes  of  a  royal  Bengal  tiger  for 
the  most  gorgeous  of  tropical  flowers.  But  escap- 
ing thence,  imagination  fluttered  and  fell,  and  a 
panorama  of  stony  hills,  a  cloudless,  luminous  sky, 
but  bare  in  brilliance,  enlivened  by  no  clouds,  by 
no  far-darting  troops  of  birds — a  narrow  strip  of 
green  shore — silence,  solitude,  and  sadness,  revealed 
to  the  Howadji  the  dream-land  of  the  tropics. 

Yet  there  was  a  sunny  spell  in  that  land  anu 
scenery  which  held  me  then,  and  holds  charmed  my 
memory  now.  It  was  a  sleep — we  seemed  to  live 
it  and  breathe  it,  as  the  sun  in  Egypt.  There  was 
luminous  languor  in  the  air,  as  from  opiate  flowers, 
yet  with  only  their  slumber,  and  none  of  their  fra- 
grance. It  seemed  a  failure  of  creation,  or  a  cre- 
ation not  yet  completed.  Nature  slept  and  dreamed 
oyer  her  work,  and  whoso  saw  her  sleep,  dreamed 
vaguely  her  dreams. 

Puck-piloted  and  girdling  the  earth  in  an  hour, 
would  not  the  Howadji  feel  that  only  a  minute's 
journey  of  that  hour  was  through  the  ripe  maturity 
of  creation — the  rest  embryo — half  conceived  or 


SOUTHWARD.  221 

hopeless  ?  "  The  world"  is  only  the  line  focus  of  all 
the  life  of  the  world  at  any  period ;  but,  O  Gun- 
ning in  blue  spectacles,  picking  gingerbread  nuts 
off  the  Dom  palm,  how  small  is  that  focus  ! 

One  Nubian  day  only  was  truly  tropical.  It  was 
near  Derr,  the  chief  town,  and  the  azure  calm  and 
brilliance  of  the  atmosphere  forced  imagination  to 
grow  glorious  gardens  upon  the  shores,  and  to  crown 
with  forests,  vine- waving,  bloom-brilliant,  the  moun- 
tains, desert  no  longer,  but  divine  as  the  vision-seen 
hill  of  prophets;  and  to  lead  triumphal  trains  of 
white  elephants,  bearing  the  forms  and  costumes  of 
Eastern  romance,  and  giraffes,  and  the  priestly 
pomp  of  India,  through  the  groves  of  many-natured 
palms  that  fringed  the  foreground  of  the  picture. 
It  was  summer  and  sunshine — a  very  lotus  day. 

I  felt  the  warm  breath  of  the  morning  streaming 
over  the  Ibis,  like  radiance  from  opening  eyes,  even 
before  the  lids  of  the  dawn  were  lifted.  Then  came 
the  sun  over  the  Arabian  mountains,  and  the  waves 
danced  daintily  in  the  rosy  air,  and  the  shores  sloped 
serenely,  and  the  river  sang  and  gurgled  against  the 
prow,  whereon  sat  the  white-turbaned,  happy  Has- 
san, placidly  smoking,  and  self-involved,  as  if  he 
heard  all  the  white  Nile  secrets,  and  those  of  the 
mountains  of  the  moon.  The  Ibis  spread  her  white 
wings  to  the  warm  wooing  wind,  and  ran  over  the 


222  NILE    NOTES. 

water.  Was  she  not  well  called  Ibis,  with  her  long, 
sharp  wings,  loved  of  the  breeze,  that  toys  with 
them  as  she  flies,  and  fills  them  to  fullness  with 
speed  ? 

The  sky  was  cloudless  and  burningly  rosy.  To 
what  devote  the  delicious  day?  What  dream  so 
dear,  what  book  so  choice,  that  it  would  satisfy  the 
spell  ?  Luxury  of  doubt  and  long  delay  !  Such 
wonder  itself  was  luxury — it  rippled  the  mind  with 
excitement,  delicately  as  the  wind  kissed  the  stream 
into  wavelets.  Yet  the  Howadji  looked  along  the 
shelves  and  the  book  was  found,  and  in  the  hot 
heart  of  noon,  he  had  drifted  far  into  the  dreamy 
depths  of  Herman  Melville's  Mardi.  Lost  in  the 
rich  romance  of  Pacific  reverie,  he  felt  all  around 
him  the  radiant  rustling  of  Yillah's  hair,  but  could 
not  own  that  Polynesian  peace  was  profounder  than 
his  own  Nubian  silence. 

Mardi  is  unrhymed  poetry,  but  rhythmical  and 
unmeasured.  Of  a  low,  lapping  cadence  is  the  swell 
of  those  sentences,  like  the  dip  of  the  sun-stilled, 
Pacific  waves.  In  more  serious  moods,  they  have 
the  grave  music  of  Bacon's  Essays.  Yet  who  but  an 
American  could  have  written  them  ?  And  essen- 
tially American  are  they,  although  not  singing 
Niagara  or  the  Indians. 

Romance  or  reality,  asked,  dazed  in  doubt,  bewil- 


^  SOUTHWARD.  223 

dered  Broadway  and  approving  Pall  Mall.  Both, 
erudite  metropolitans,  and  you,  O  ye  of  the  warm 
slippers.  The  Howadji  is  no  seaman,  yet  can  he 
dream  the  possible  dreams  of  the  mariner  in  the 
main-top  of  the  becalmed  or  trade-wind-wafted  Pa- 
cific whaler.  In  those  musings,  mingles  rare  reality, 
though  it  be  romantically  edged,  as  those  palms  of 
Ibreem,  seen  through  the  glass,  are  framed  in  won- 
drous gold  and  purple. — 

On,  on,  deeper  into  the  Pacific  calm,  farther  into 
that  Southern  spell !  The  day  was  divine — the 
hush,  the  dazzle,  the  supremacy  of  light,  were  the 
atmosphere  of  the  tropics,  and  if,  toward  evening, 
and  for  days  after,  the  anxious  North  blustered  in 
after  her  children,  she  could  never  steal  that  day 
from  their  memories.  The  apple  was  bitten.  The 
Howadji  had  tasted  the  equator. 


XXXI. 

ULTIMA  THULE, 

WE  sought  the  South  no  longer.  Far  flown 
already  into  a  silent  land,  the  Ibis  finally  furled 
her  wingsat  Aboo  Simbel.  But  far  and  ever  farther 
southward,  over  the  still  river-reaches,  pressed  pierc- 
ing thought,  nor  paused  at  Khartoum  where  the 
Nile  divides,  nor  lingered  until  lost  in  the  mountains 
of  the  moon.  Are  they  sarcastically  named,  those 
mountains,  or  prophetically,  that  when  they  are 
explored,  the  real  moon  ranges  shall  be  determined  ? 

Up  through  the  ruins  of  the  eldest  laad  and  the 
eldest  race  came  two  children  of  the  youngest,  and 
stood  gazing  southward  into  silence.  Southward 
into  the  childishness  of  races  forever  in  their  dotage 
or  never  to  grow — toward  the  Dinkas  and  the  shores 
loved  of  the  lotus,  where  they  worship  trees,  and 
pull  out  the  incisors  for  beauty,  and  where  a  three- 
legged  stool  is  a  king's  throne. 

The  South  !  our  synonym  of  love,  beauty,  and  a 
wide  world  unrealized.  Lotus  fragrance  blows  out- 
ward from  that  name,  and  steeps  us  in  blissful  dreams 


ULTIMA    THULE.  225 

that  bubble  audibly  in  song  from  pcets'  lips.  It  is 
the  realm  of  faery-fantasy  and  perfected  passion- 
Dark,  deep  eyes  gushing  radiance  in  rapt  summer 
noons,  are  the  South,  visible  and  bewildering  to  the 
imagination  of  the  North.  Whoso  sails  southward 
is  a  happy  mariner,  and  we  fancy  his  ship  gliding 
forever  across  tranced  sapphire  seas,  reeking  with 
rarest  odors,  steeped  in  sunshine  and  silence,  waft- 
ed by  winds  that  faint  with  sweet  and  balm  against 
the  silken  sails ;  for  the  South  has  no  wood  for  us 
but  sandal,  and  ebony,  and  cedar,  and  no  stuifs  but 
silks  and  cloth  of  gold. 

Sumptuous  is  the  South — a  Syren  singing  us  ever 
forward  to  a  bliss  never  reached ;  but  with  each 
mile  won  she  makes  the  pursuit  more  passionate, 
brimming  the  cup  that  only  feeds  the  thirst,  with 
delicious  draughts  that  taste  divine.  Then  some 
love-drunken  poet  beholds  her  as  a  person,  and 
bursts  into  song — 

"  I  muse,  as  a  tranince,  whene'er 

The  languors  of  thy  love-deep  eyes 
Float  on  to  me.    I  would  I  were 

So  tranced,  so  rapt  in  ecstasies — 
To  stand  apart  and  to  adore, 
Gazing  oa  thee  for  evermore — 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore." 

The  morning  was  bright  when  the  Ibis  stopped  at 

A.boo  Simbel.     Nero  presently  arrived,  and  the  blue 
10* 


226  NILE    NOTES. 

pennant  passed,  flying  forward  to  Wady  Haifa  and 
the  second  cataract.  After  a  brief  delay  and  a  pleas- 
ant call,  Nero  stretched  into  the  stream,  and  the 
Italian  tricolor  floated  off  southward,  and  disap- 
peared. The  Ibis  was  left  alone  at  the  shore.  Over 
it  rose  abruptly  a  bold,  picturesque  rock,  which,  of 
all  the  two  hundred  miles  between  the  cataracts,  is 
the  natural  site  for  a  rock  temple. 

A  grand  goal  is  Aboo  Simbel  for  the  long  Nile 
voyage,  and  the  more  striking  that  it  is  approached 
from  Cairo,  through  long  ranges  of  white  plaster 
mosques,  and  minarets,  and  square  mud  pigeon- 
houses — the  highest  architectural  attempt  of  mod- 
ern Egyptian  genius  on  the  Nile.  The  Howadji  is 
ushered  by  dwarfs  into  the  presence  of  a  God.  The 
long  four  weeks'  flight  of  the  Ibis  through  such  a 
race  and  works  to  this  temple  goal,  is  the  sad,  severe 
criticism  of  time  upon  himself  and  his  own  changes. 
For  although  time  is  wise,  and  buries,  where  he 
can,  his  past  from  his  future,  yet  here  is  something 
mightier  than  he  ;  and  the  azure  of  the  sky  which  he 
cannot  tarnish,  preserves  the  valorous  deeds  of  his 
youth  freshly  and  fair  to  his  unwilling  age.  Vainly 
he  strives  to  bury  the  proofs  and  works  of  his  early 
genius — vainly  in  remote  Nubia  he  calls  upon  the 
desert  to  hide  them,  that  young  England  and  young 
America  may  flatter  their  fond  conceits,  that  now 


ULTIMA    THULE.  2^7 

for  the  first  time  man  fairly  lives,  and  human  genius 
plays.  Some  wandering  Belzoni  thwarts  his  plans — 
foils  the  desert,  and  on  the  first  of  August,  1817, 
with  Mr.  Beechy,  and  Captains  Irby  and  Mangles, 
pushes  his  way  into  "  the  finest  and  most  extensive 
excavation  in  Nubia" — thinks  it  "very  large"  at 
first,  and  gradually  his  "astonishment  increased," 
as  he  finds  it  to  be  "  one  of  the  most  magnificent  of 
temples,  enriched  with  beautiful  intaglios — paint- 
ing— colossal  figures,  etc.,"  which  etc.  is  precisely 
the  inexpressible  grandeur  of  Aboo  Simbel.  For  he 
who  has  not  flown  up  the  Nile,  must  begin  his  trav- 
els again,  if  he  would  behold  ruins.  Standing  at 
Aboo  Simbel,  and  looking  southward,  Greece  and 
Rome  are  toys  of  yesterday,  and  vapors  wreathing 
away.  '  When  once  the  Egyptian  temples  are  seen, 
they  alone  occupy  the  land,  and  suggest  their  own 
priests  and  people.  The  hovels  of  the  present  race 
are  as  ant-hills  at  their  gates.  Their  prominency 
and  importance  cannot  be  conceived  from  the 
value  and  interest  of  other  ruins.  Here  at  Aboo 
Simbel  the  Howadji,  after  potential  potations  and 
much  meditation,  is  inclined  to  bless  the  desert ; 
for  he  feels  that  in  Egypt  it  is  the  ally  of  art,  and 
the  friend  of  modern  times. 

The  Howadji  entered  now  upon  a  course  of  tem- 
ples.    The  Ibis  pointed  her  prow  northward,  and 


228  NILE    NOTES. 

sight-seeing  commenced.  Yet  on  these  pages 
remains  slight  detail  of  what  she  saw  as  she 
threaded  homeward  that  wonderful  wilderness  of 
ruin.  Not  a  diary  of  details,  but  slightest  sketches 
of  impression,  were  found  at  Cairo  under  her  wing. 

This  day  at  Aboo  Simbel,  while  the  first  officer, 
Seyd,  superintended  the  taking  down  of  the  masts 
and  sails  and  the  arrangement  of  the  huge  oars — 
for  we  were  to  float  and  row  northward,  when  the 
wind  would  allow — and  while  the  Hadji  Hamed 
and  his  kitchen  were  removed  to  the  extreme  prow, 
to  make  room  for  the  rowers  on  the  middle  deck, 
the  Howadji  climbed  the  steep  sand-bank  to  the 
temples  of  Aboo  Simbel. 

The  smaller  one  is  nearest  the  river,  and  is  an  ex- 
cavation in  the  solid  rock,  with  six  sculptured  fig- 
ures on  the  fagade.  Two  of  these  are  Athor,  the 
Egyptian  Venus,  to  whom  the  temple  was  consecrate. 
She  had  beautiful  names,  and  of  delicate  significance, 
as  the  Lady  of  the  West,  because  she  received  the 
setting  sun — the  Night,  not  primeval  darkness,  but 
the  mellow  tropical  night,  breathing  coolness  and 
balm.  Athor's  emblems  are  so  like  those  of  Isis, 
that  the  two  deities  are  often  confounded.  She  was 
the  latter  Aphrodite  of  the  Greeks,  to  whom  they 
built  the  Dendereh  temple;  and,  like  Isis,  is  cow- 
horned  and  mild-eyed,  with  a  disk  between  the 


ULTIMA    THULE.  229 

horns.  Athor  was  a  gracious  and  gentle  goddess, 
and  properly  was  her  temple  encountered  here,  fur 
in  the  gracious  and  gentle  South,  whose  sweetness 
and  languor  were  personified  in  the  tender  tranquil- 
lity of  her  mien. 

But  beyond  and  higher,  is  the  great  temple  of 
Aboo  Simbel,  in  front  of  which  sit  four  Colossi, 
figures  of  Ramses  the  Great.  Their  grandeur  and 
beauty  are  beyond  expression,  and  the  delight  in 
their  lofty  character  of  beauty  quite  consumes  the 
natural  wonder  at  their  uninjured  duration  for 
twenty  or  thirty  centuries.  Yet  in  Egypt,  the 
mind  gradually  acquires  a  sense  of  permanence  in 
the  forms  that  meet  the  eye.  Permanence  is  the 
spirit  of  the  climate,  and  of  the  simplicity  of  the 
landscape,  and  of  the  supreme  silence.  "What  is 
built  at  the  present  time,  is  evidently  so  transitory  ' 
in  its  construction  and  character,  yet  lasts  so  long, 
that  the  reasons  of  the  fact  of  duration  are  clear  to 
your  mind  before  wonder  is  awakened.  The  dry, 
warm  air  is  the  spell,  and  as  it  feeds  your  lungs  and 
life,  it  breathes  into  your  mind  its  most  significant 
secrets. 

In  these  faces  of  Ramses,  seven  feet  long,  is  a 
godlike  grandeur  and  beauty,  which  the  Greeks 
never  reached.  They  are  not  only  colossal  blocks 
of  stone,  but  the  mind  cannot  escape  the  fceling 


230  NILE    NOTES. 

that  they  were  conceived  by  colossal  minds.  Such, 
only,  cherish  the  idea  of  repose  so  profound  ;  for 
there  is  no  type  or  standard  in  nature  for  works 
like  these,  except  the  comparative  character  of  the 
real  expression  of  real  heroes,  and  more  than  heroes. 
If  a  poet  should  enter  in  dreams  the  sacred  groves 
of  the  grandest  mythology,  these  are  the  forms  he 
would  expect  to  see,  breathing  grandeur  and  godly 
grace.  They  sit  facing  the  south-east,  and  as  if 
necessarily  expectant  of  the  world's  homage.  There 
is  a  sweetness  beyond  smiling  in  the  rounded,  placid 
mouth.  The  nose  is  arched,  the  almond-eye  volup- 
tuously lidded,  as  the  lips  are  rounded,  and  the  still- 
ness of  their  beauty  is  steeped  in  a  placid  passion, 
that  seems  passionlessness,  and  which  was  necessa- 
rily inseparable  from  the  works  of  southern  artists. 
It  is  a  new  type  of  beauty,  not  recalling  or  suggest- 
ing any  other.  It  is  alone  in  sculpture,  serene  and 
godlike.  Greek  Jupiter  is  grand  and  terrible,  but 
human.  The  Jupiter  of  any  statue,  even  the  To- 
nans  or  the  Olympian,  might  have  showered  in 
gold  upon  Danae,  or  folded  lo  in  the  embracing 
cloud,  or  have  toyed  with  fond,  foolish  Semele  till 
his  fire  consumed  her.  The  Greek  gods  are  human. 
But  these  elder  figures  are  above  humanity — they 
dwell  serenely  in  abstract  perfection. 

In  their  mystic  beauty  all  this  appears.    And  the 


ULTIMA    THULE.  231 

American  Howadji  wonders  to  find  this  superhu- 
man character  projected  into  such  expression.  The 
face  of  one  of  these  Aboo  Simbel  figures  teaches 
more  of  elder  Egypt  than  any  hieroglyphed  history 
which  any  Old  Mortality  may  dig  out,  in  the  same 
way  that  the  literature  of  Greece  and  the  character 
of  Greek  art  reveal  the  point  of  development 
reached  by  the  Greek  nature,  which,  standing  as  a 
world-student  at  Aboo  Simbel,  is  the  point  of  in- 
terest to  the  Howadji.  Strangely  they  sit  there, 
and  have  sat,  the  beautiful  bloom  of  eternal  youth 
and  the  beautiful  balance  of  serene  wisdom  in  their 
faces,  with  no  trace  there  of  the  possibility  of  human 
emotion  ;  and  so  they  sit  and  benignly  smile  through 
the  Howadji's  mind  forever,  as  the  most  triumphant 
realization  in  art  of  the  abstract  perfection  of  con- 
scious being. 

After  which  consolatory  conclusion,  that,  with 
the  resounding  tongues  of  the  figures,  the  Howadji 
would  be  glad  to  thunder  chorally  to  the  world,  he 
descends  the  sand-slope  into  the  interior  of  the 
temple  ;  for  the  sand  has  so  filled  it,  that  although 
the  entrance  is  some  thirty  feet  high,  he  must  stoop 
to  enter.  The  day  was  waning,  and  the  great  hall 
was  dark.  The  present  Howadji  was  yet  weak 
with  the  illness  which  the  white-haired  phantom 
watched,  and  remained  with  Congo  upon  the  sand- 


232  NILE    NOTES. 

slope,  looking  into  the  temple,  as  the  light  wood 
was  kindled  in  a  portable-crate,  to  illuminate  the 
interior.  But  the  Pacha  penetrated  two  hundred 
feet  to  the  adytum.  He  passed  the  Osiride  col- 
umns, which  are  a  grand  feature  of  the  early  tem- 
ples, being  statues  with  placid  features  and  arms 
folded  upon  their  breast,  cut  upon  the  face  of 
square  pillars,  and  reached  the  four  sitting  figures 
in  the  adytum — a  separate  interior  niche  and  holy 
of  holies — figures  of  the  gods  to  whom  the  temple 
was  dedicate.  Chiefly  Aboo  Simbel  was  dedicate 
to  Ea,  the  sun ;  also  to  Kueph,  Osiris,  and  Isis,  by 
Ramses  the  Great.  Upon  all  the  walls  are  sculp- 
tures of  his  victories  ;  his  offerings  to  the  Gods,  and 
religious  rites.  These  walls  are  blackened  now 
by  smoke,  and  each  fresh  party  of  Howadji,  with 
its  fresh  portable  crate  of  light  wood,  cannot  avoid 
smoking  its  share  of  the  temple. 

The  sun  was  setting  as  the  Howadji  emerged,  and 
looked  their  last  upon  the  placid  Gods,  whose  grace 
made  the  twilight  tender.  They  slid  slowly  down 

•/  •> 

the  sand  to  the  shore,  and  reached  the  poor,  dis- 
mantled Ibis.  Fleet,  fair  Ibis  no  longer — the  masts 
were  down  and  were  stretched  over  the  deck,  like 
ridgepoles,  for  an  awning,  and  the  smoke  of  kara 
kooseh  ascended  from  the  prow,  and  the  sharp, 
lithe  yards  pierced  the  blue  no  more.  The  g^ory 


ULTIMA    THULE.  233 

was  gone,  and  the  beauty.  It  was  an  Ibis  no 
longer;  but  a  "loggy  old  junk,  a  lumpish  gunde- 
low,"  said  the  sententious  Pacha. 

The  golden-sleeved  commander  received  us,  tak- 
ing credit  for  all  that  had  been  done ;  and  as  the 
stars  triumphed  over  the  brief  twilight,  the  crew, 
with  a  slow,  mournful  song,  pushed  away  from  the 
shore,  and  we  headed  southward  no  longer.  There 
was  a  sadness  in  that  starlight  beyond  any  other 
upon  the  Nile.  The  Howadji  had  reached  their 
southest  south,  and  the  charm  of  exploration  was 
over.  Return  is  always  sad ;  for  return  is  unnatural. 
Ever  forward,  ever  farther,  is  the  law  of  life ;  and 
the  outward  seems  not  to  keep  pace  with  the  in- 
ward, even  if  it  does  not  seem  to  dwarf  and  defraud 
it,  when  we  return  to  the  same  places  and  the  old 
pursuits.  As  the  South  receded  in  the  starlight, 
that  silent  evening,  a  duty  and  a  right  seemed  to 
be  slipping  away — the  Howadji  were  turning  the 
farthest  point  of  dreaming,  their  Cape  of  Good 
Hope,  beyond  which  slept  their  Indian  seas,  and 
drifted  again  with  the  mystic  stream  slowly  out  of 
the  past  toward  the  insatiable  future. 

The  moon  rose  and  hung  golden  over  Arabia, 
as  the  sad,  monotonous  song  of  the  crew  trembled 
and  died  away ;  and  with  its  slow,  measured 
throb  the  Howadji's  hearts  beat  homeward. 


XXXII. 

NORTHWARD. 

WE  lloated  and  rowed  slowly  down  the  river. 
When  the  wind  blew  violently  the  crew  did  not  row 
at  all,  and  we  took  our  chance  at  floating,  spinning 
round  upon  the  river,  and  drifting  from  shore  to  shore. 
When  it  swelled  to  a  gale,  we  drew  in  under  the 
bank  and  allowed  its  fury  to  pass.  Once,  for  two  days 
it  held  us  fast,  and  the  irate  Howadji  could  do  nothing 
but  await  the  pleasure  of  a  lull.  But  the  gale  out- 
lasted their  patience.  They  had  explored  all  the 
neighboring  shore,  had  seen  the  women  with  glass 
beads,  and  necklaces,  and  black  woollen  garments, 
and  crisp  woolly  hair.  They  had  sat  upon  the  mud 
seats  of  the  houses,  and  had  been  the  idols  of  popular 
attention  and  admiration.  But  the  wind  would  not 
blow  away,  and  the  too  happy  crew  stretched  upon 
the  bank,  and  shielded  by  it,  slept  and  chatted  all 
day  long.  The  third  day,  the  gale  still  blew,  though 
feebly,  and  orders  for  tracking  were  issued  from  the 
blue  cabin.  There  was  great  reluctance,  for  it  is  hard 


NORTHWARD.  235 

work  to  pull  a  Junk  or  Gundelow  against  a  wind. 
And  as  the  supple-limbed,  smooth-skinned  Moham- 
mad, one  of  the  best  workers  of  the  crew,  undertook, 
standing  on  the  shore  among  the  rest,  who  did  not 
dare  to  speak,  to  expostulate  and  complain,  the  Pa- 
cha, in  a  royal  rage,  was  about  springing  upon  him 
for  tremendous  chastisement,  when  Mohammed, 
warned  by  his  fellows,  sprang  up  the  bank  ?.nd  dis- 
appeared. The  rest,  appalled  and  abashed,  seized 
the  rope  and  went  to  work.  We  tracked  but  a  few 
miles  that  day,  however,  for  it  was  too  heavy  work. 

The  wind  died  at  last,  but  it  was  never  as  peace- 
able as  it  should  have  been.  For  although  the 
hopeful  ascending  Howadji  hears  that  with  January 
or  February  the  soft  southern  gales  begin  to  blow, 
and  will  waft  him  as  gently  northward  as  the  north 
winds  blew  him  south,  he  finds  that  those  southern 
gales  blow  only  in  poetry,  or  poetic  memory. 

In  the  calmer  pauses,  however,  we  tracked  and 
rowed,  and  drifted  to  Dekkar,  and  a  yellow,  vaporous 
moon  led  us  to  the  temple.  Seyd  accompanied 
the  Howadji  with  the  portable  crate,  wherewith 
they  were  to  do  their  share  of  smoking  the  remains. 
All  Nubia  was  asleep  in  the  yellow  moonlight, 
and  the  inhabitants  of  Dekkar  rushed  forth  from 
their  huts  as  we  passed  along,  the  huge  Seyd  pre- 
ceding, bearing  the  crate  like  a  trophy,  and  snarling 


236  NILE    NOTKS. 

at  all  curs  that  shivered  the  hushed  silence  with 
their  shrieks.  Doubtless,  as  we  approached  the 
temple,  and  the  glare  of  our  torches  flashed  through 
its  darkness,  meditative  jackals  and  other  beasts  of 
prey  withdrew  to  the  more  friendly  dark  of  distance. 
And  then,  if  ever,  standing  in  the  bright  moonlight 
among  Egyptian  ruins,  the  apostrophes,  and  senti- 
mentalities, and  extravagancies,  of  Volney  and  his 
brood,  flap  duskily  through  the  mind  like  birds  of 
omen  ill. 

There  is  something  essentially  cheerful,  however, 
in  an  Egyptian  ruin.  It  stands  so  boldly  bare  in 
the  sun  and  moon,  its  forms  are  so  massive  and  pre- 
cise, its  sculptures  so  simply  outlined,  and  of  such 
serene  objectivity  of  expression,  and  time  deals  so 
gently  with  the  ruin's  self,  as  if  reluctant,  through 
love  or  fear,  to  obliterate  it,  or  even  to  hang  it  with 
flowery  weepers  and  green  mosses,  that  your  feeling 
shares  the  freshness  of  the  ruin,  and  you  reserve  for 
the  Coliseum  or  the  Parthenon  that  luxury  of  soft 
sentiment,  of  which  Childe  Harold's  apostrophe  to 
Rome  is  the  excellent  expression.  We  must  add  to 
this,  too,  the  entire  separation  from  our  sympathy, 
of  the  people  and  principles  that  originated  these 
structures.  The  Romans  are  our  friends  and  neigh 
bors  in  time,  for  they  lived  only  yesterday.  History 
sees  clearly  to  the  other  side  of  Rome,  and  beholds 


NORTHWARD.  237 

the  campagna  and  the  mountains,  before  the  wolf 
was  whelped,  that  mothered  a  world.  But  along 
these  shores  history  sees  not  much  more  than  we 
can  see.  It  cannot  look  within  the  hundred  gates  of 
Thebes,  and  babbles  very  inarticulately  about  what 
it  professes  to  know.  We  have  a  vague  feeling 
that  this  was  the  eldest  born  of  Time — certainly, 
his  most  accomplished  and  wisest  child,  and  that  the 
best  of  our  knowledge  is  a  flower  off  that  trunk. 
But  that  is  not  enough  to  bring  us  near  to  it.  The 
Colossi  sit  speechless,  but  do  not  look  as  if  they 
would  speak  our  language,  even  were  their  tongues 
loosed.  Theirs  is  another  beauty,  another  feeling 
than  ours,  and  except  to  passionless  study  and  uni- 
versal cosmopolitan  interest,  Egypt  has  only  the 
magnetism  of  mystery  for  us,  until  the  later  days  of 
its  decline. 

Our  human  interest  enters  Egypt  with  Alex- 
ander the  Great  and  the  Greeks,  and  becomes  vivid 
and  redly  warm  with  the  Romans  and  Cleopatra, 
with  Caesar  and  Marc  Antony,  with  Hadrian  and 
Antinous.  The  rest  are  phantoms  and  spectres  that 
haunt  the  shores.  Therefore,  there  are  two  inter- 
ests and  two  kinds  of  remains  in  Egypt,  the  Pharaoh- 
nic  and  the  Ptolemaic — the  former  represents  the 
eldest,  and  the  latter  the  youngest,  history  of  the 
land.  The  elder  is  the  genuine  old  Egyptian  inter 


238  NILE    NOTES. 

est,  the  younger  the  Greco-Egyptian — after  the  con- 
quest— after  the  glorious  son  had  returned  to  engraft 
his  own  development  upon  the  glorious  sire.  It 
was  the  tree  in  flower,  transplanted.  No  Howadji 
denies  that  the  seed  was  Egyptian,  but  poet  Marti- 
neau  perpetually  reviles  the  Greeks  for  their  auda- 
city in  coming  to  Egypt,  can  with  difficulty  contain 
her  dissatisfaction  at  pausing  to  see  the  Ptolemaic 
remains,  finds  that  word  sufficient  description  and 
condemnation.  But  the  Greeks,  notwithstanding, 
rarely  spoiled  anything  they  touched,  and  here  in 
Egypt,  they  inoculated  massiveness  with  grace,  and 
grandeur  with  beauty.  Of  course  there  was  always 
something  lost.  An  Egyptian  temple  built  by 
Greek-taught  natives,  or  by  Greeks  who  wished  to 
compromise  a  thousand  jealousies  and  prejudices, 
must,  like  all  other  architecture,  be  emblematical 
of  the  spirit  of  the  time  and  of  the  people.  Yet  in 
gaining  grace  the  Howadji  is  not  disposed  to  think 
that  Egyptian  architecture  lost  much  of  its  grand- 
eur. The  rock  temples,  the  oldest  Egyptian  remains, 
have  all  the  imposing  interest  of  the  might  and  char 
acter  of  primitive  races  grandly  developing  in  art. 
But  as  the  art  advances  to  separate  structures,  and 
slowly  casts  away  a  crust  of  crudities,  although  it 
may  lose  in  solid  weight,  it  gains  in  every  other 
way. 


NORTHWARD.  239 

Then  the  perfection  of  any  art  is  always  unobtru- 
sive. Yes,  in  a  sense,  unimpressive,  as  the  most 
exquisite  of  summer  days  so  breathes  balm  into  a 
vigorous  and  healthy  body,  that  t"he  individual  exists 
without  corporeal  consciousness,  yet  is  then  most 
corporeally  perfect.  In  the  same  way  disproportion 
arrests  the  attention.  Beautiful  balance,  which  is 
the  character  of  perfection  in  art  or  human  charac- 
ter or  nature,  allows  no  prominent  points.  Wash- 
ington is  undoubtedly  always  underrated  in  our 
judgments,  because  he  was  so  well-proportioned; 
and  the  finest  musical  performance  has  such  natural 
ease  and  quiet,  and  the  colors  and  treatment  of  a 
fine  picture  such  propriety  and  harmony,  that  we  do 
not  at  once  know  how  fine  it  is.  It  is  the  cutting 
of  a  razor  so  sharply  edged  that  we  are  not  conscious 
of  it.  We  have  all  seen  the  same  thing  in  beautiful 
faces.  The  most  permanent  and  profound  beauty 
did  not  thrill  us,  but  presently,  like  air  to  the  lungs, 
it  was  a  necessity  of  inner  life,  while  the  striking 
beauty  is  generally  a  disproportion,  and  so  far  a 
monstrosity  and  fault.  Men  who  feel  beauty  most 
profoundly,  are  often  unable  to  recall  the  color  of 
eyes  and  hai^,  unless,  as  with  artists,  there  is  an  in- 
voluntary technical  attention  to  those  points.  For 
beauty  is  a  radiance  that  cannot  be  analyzed,  and 
which  is  not  described  when  -vou  call  it  rosy.  Want- 


240  NILE    NOTES. 

ing  any  word  which  shall  express  it,  is  not  the  high- 
est beauty  the  synonym  of  balance,  for  the  highest 
thought  is  God,  and  he  is  passionlessly  balanced  in 
our  conception. 

This  is  singularly  true  in  architecture.  The  Greek 
nature  was  the  most  purely  proportioned  of  any 
that  we  know — and  this  beautiful  balance  breathes 
its  character  through  all  Greek  art.  The  Greeks 
were  as  much  the  masters  of  their  world,  physically, 
and  infinitely  more,  iptellectually,  than  the  Romans 
were  of  theirs.  "  And  it  is  suspected  that  the  Greek 
element  blending  with  the  Saxon,  makes  us  the  men 
we  are.  Yet  the  single  Roman  always  appears  in 
our  imaginations  as  stronger,  because  more  stalwart, 
than  the  Greek — and  the  elder  Egyptian  architecture 
seems  grander,  because  heavier,  than  the  Grecian. 
It  is  a  kind  of  material  deception — the  triumph  of 
gross  sense.  It  is  the  old  story  of  Richard  and 
Saladin. 

The  grace  of  the  Greek  character,  both  humanly 
and  artistically,  was  not  a  want  of  strength,  but  it 
was  exquisite  balance.  Grace  in  character  as  in 
movement,  is  the  last  delicate  flower,  the  most 
bloomy  bloom.  The  grandeur  of  mountain  outlines 
— their  poetic  sentiment — the  exquisite  hues  that 
flush  along  their  sides,  are  not  truly  known  until 
you  have  so  related  them  to  the  whole  landscape,  by 


NORTHWARD. 

separating  yourself  from  them,  that  this  balance  can 
appear.  While  you  climb  the  mountain,  and  behold 
one  detail  swift  swallowing  another — although  the 
abysses  are  grand,  and  the  dead  trunks  titanic,  and 
the  single  flower  exquisite,  yet  the  mass  has  no  form 
and  no  hue,  and  only  the  details  have  character. 

Beauty  is  reached  in  the  same  way  in  art.  If  parts 
are  exaggerated,  striking  impressions  may  be  pro- 
duced, but  the  best  beauty  is  lost.  The  early  Egyp- 
tian architecture  is  exaggeratedly  heavy.  The  whole 
art,  in  its  feeling  and  form,  seems  to  symbolize 
foundation — as  if  it  were  to  bear  all  the  finer  and 
farther  architectures  of  the  world  upon  itself.  It  is 
massive,  and  heavy,  and  permanent,  but  not  graceful. 
The  beholder  brings  away  this  ponderous  impression 
— nothing  seems  massive  to  him  after  Egypt,  as  no- 
thing seems  clean  after  a  Shaker  village,  and  if  upon 
the  shore  something  lighter  and  more  graceful  arrest 
his  eye,  he  is  sure  that  it  is  a  decadence  of  art.  For 
so  impressively  put  is  this  massiveness  of  structure, 
that  it  seems  the  only  rule,  and  he  will  hear  of  no 
others — as  a  man  returning  from  a  discourse  of  one 
idea,  eloquently  and  fervidly  set  forth,  believes  in 
that,  mainly,  until  he  hears  another  fervid  argu- 
ment. 

But  the  Greeks  achieved  something  loftier.    They 

harmonized  strength  into  beauty,  and  therein  secured 
11 


242  NILE    NOTES 

the  highest  success  of  art — the  beautifying  ?f  use 
Nothing  in  nature  is  purely  ornamental,  and  there- 
fore nothing  in  art  has  a  right  to  be.  Greek  archi- 
tecture sacrifices  none  of  the  strength  of  the  Egyp- 
tian, if  we  may  trust  the  most  careful  and  accurate 
engravings,  but  elevates  it.  It  is  the  proper  super- 
structure of  that  foundation.  It  is  aerial,  and  light, 
and  delicate.  Probably,  on  the  whole,  a  Greek 
temple  charms  the  eye  more  than  any  other  single 
object  of  art.  It  is  serene  and  beautiful.  The  grace 
of  the  sky  and  of  the  landscape  would  seem  to  have 
been  perpetually  present  in  the  artist's  mind  who 
designed  it.  This  architecture  has  also  the  smiling 
simplicity,  which  is  the  characteristic  of  all  youth, 
— while  the  African  has  a  kind  of  dumb,  ante-living, 
ante-sunlight  character,  like  that  of  an  embryo 
Titan. 

When  the  Greeks  came  to  Egypt,  they  brought 
Greece  with  them,  and  the  last  living  traces  of  an- 
tique Egypt  began  to  disappear.  They  even  changed 
the  names  of  cities,  and  meddled  with  the  theologyr 
and  in  art  the  Greek  genius  was  soon  evident — yet 
as  blending  and  beautifying,  not  destroying — and 
the  Ptolemaic  temples,  while  they  have  not  lost  the 
massive  grandeur  of  the  Pharaohnic,  havre  gained  a 
greater  grace.  A  finer  feeling  is  apparent  in  them 
lighter  and  more  genial  touch — a  lyrical  senti- 


NORTHWARD.  *J43 

ment,  which  does  not  appear  in  the  dumb  old  epica 
of  Aboo  Simbel,  and  of  Gerf  Hoseyn.  They  have 
an  air  of  flowers,  arid  freshness,  and  human  feeling. 
They  are  sculptured  with  the  same  angular  heroes, 
and  gods,  and  victims,  but,  while  these  are  not  so 
well  done  as  in  the  elder  temples,  and  indicate  that 
the  Egyptians  themselves  were  degenerate  in  the 
art,  or  that  the  Greeks  who  attained  the  same  re- 
sult of  mural  commemoration  in  a  loftier  manner 
at  home,  did  it  clumsily  in  Egypt — the  general  effect 
and  character  of  the  temples  are  much  more  beautiful 
to  the  eye.  The  curious  details  begin  to  yield  to 
the  complete  whole,  a  gayer,  more  cultivated,  far- 
ther advanced,  race  has  entered  and  occupied. 

The  Howadji  will  check  himself  here,  as  he 
stumbles  over  a  fallen  hieroglyphed  column  in  the 
moonlight.  But  this  temple  of  Dekkar  was  a  pro- 
per place  to  say  so  much  for  the  abused  temples  of 
Ptolemaic  times  ;  for  this  is  a  building  of  Ergamun, 
an  Ethiopian  prince,  and  a  neighbor  of  Ptolemy 
Philadelphus,  who  had  seen  Greece,  and  learned  a 
little  wisdom,  and  made  a  stand  in  a  temple, 
probably  on  this  very  site,  against  the  ignorant 
tyranny  of  priests,  not  supposing,  as  Sir  Gardner 
aptly  remarks,  "  that  belief  in  the  priests  signified 
belief  in  the  gods,  whom  he  failed  not  to  honor 
with  due  respect." 


244  NILE    NOTES. 

Sir  Gardner  quotes  the  story  from  Diodorus,  that 
"  the  most  extraordinary  thing  is  what  relates  to 
the  death  of  their  kings.  The  priests,  who  superin- 
tend the  worship  of  the  Gods,  and  the  ceremonies 
of  religion,  in'Meroe,  enjoy  such  unlimited  power, 
that,  whenever  they  choose,  they  send  a  messenger 
to  the  king,  ordering  him  to  die,  for  that  the  gods 
had  given  this  command,  and  no  mortal  could  op- 
pose their  will,  without  being  guilty  of  a  crime. 
They  also  add  other  reasons,  which  would  influence 
a  man  of  weak  mind,  accustomed  to  give  way  to 
old  custom  and  prejudice,  and  without  sufficient 
sense  to  oppose  such  unreasonable  commands.  In 
former  times  the  kings. had  obeyed  the  priests,  not 
by  compulsion,  but  out  of  mere  superstition,  until 
Ergamenes,  who  ascended  the  throne  of  Ethiopia, 
in  the  time  of  the  second  Ptolemy,  a  man  instructed 
in  the  sciences  and  philosophy  of  Greece,  was  bold 
enough  to  defy  their  orders.  And,  having  made  a 
resolution  worthy  of  a  prince,  he  repaired  with  his 
troops  to  a  fortress,  or  high  place,  where  a  golden 
temple  of  the  Ethiopians  stood,  and  there  having 
slain  all  the  priests,  he  abolished  the  ancient  cus- 
tom, and  substituted  other  institutions,  according 
to  his  own  will." 

W«  may  thank  Greece  possibly  for  that.  Yet,  that 
we  may  enjoy  the  satisfaction  of  making  ourselves 


NORTHWARD.  245 

contemporary  with  such  histories,  let  us  refer  to 
Frederic  Werne's  White  Nile,  and  discover  that  races 
neighbors  of  our  tree-worshipping  friends,  the  Din- 
kas,  if  not  sometimes  our  very  friends  themselves, 
continue  this  habit,  and  allow  the  priests  to  notify 
the  kings  to  die.  As  yet  has  arisen  no  Dinka  Er- 
gamun.  But  such  always  do  arise — some  Ergamun, 
or  Luther,  or  Strauss,  and  protest  with  blood  or 
books  against  the  priests,  although  tree-worshipping 
Dinkas,  who  enthrone  their  king  on  a  three-legged 
stool  may  plead  the  South,  and  so  stand  absolved 
from  this  duty. 

Muse  a  moment  longer  in  these  moonlight  ruins, 
and,  observing  brave  king  Ergamun  hieroglyphed 
(say  the  learned)  "  king  of  men,  the  hand  of  Amun, 
the  living,  chosen  of  Re,  son  of  the  sun,  Ergamun 
ever-living,  the  beloved  of  Isis,"  let  the  faint  figures 
of  those  elders  pass  by  and  perceive  that  you  honor 
them,  though  you  do  think  the  Greek  Architecture 
more  beatiful.  The  glare  of  Seyd's  torch  reveals 
upon  these  walls  figures  and  a  faith  that  are  not  less 
dear  to  the  Howadji,  as  history,  than  any  other. 
But  the  forms  fade  in  the  misty  moonlight,  as  their 
names  are  fading  out  of  history.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
Mehemet  AH  was  as  good  and  glorious  as  Ramses 
the  Great,  whom  the  Greeks  called  Sesostris,  or  any 
of  the  Thothmes. 


246  NILE    NOTES 

Who  knows  ? — perhaps  they  were. 

Harriet  Martineau,  indeed,  and  the  other  poetical 
Howadji,  are  inclined  to  doubt  whether  there  were 
any  wry  necks,  or  squint-eyes  in  those  days  of 
giants,  and  you  cannot  say  yea,  or  nay,  for  the 
great  darkness. 

Who  knows  ? — perhaps  there  were  not. 

Great  they  clearly  were,  for  they  built  these  tem- 
ples, and  graved  the  walls  with  their  own  glory 
But  they  have  the  advantage  of  the  dark,  while 
Mehemet  AH  and  Julius  Caesar  stand  in  the 
broad  daylight,  with  all  their  wrinkles.  Besides, 
when  men  have  been  dead  a  few  thousand  years,  if 
their  names  escape  to  us  across  the  great  gulf 
of  Time,  it  is  only  decent  to  take  them  in  and  en- 
tertain them  kindly ;  especially  is  it  becoming  to 
those  Howadji,  who  sail  their  river  along  the  shores 
they  so  ponderously  piled  with  grandeur. 

But  the  Ptolemies,  also — Luxor,  Dendereh, 
Edfoo,  Kum  Ombos,  Philae,  and  the  temples  at 
Karnak — these  are  part  of  Egypt.  O  poetic  and 
antiquity-adoring  Howadji,  this  jealousy  of  the 
Greeks  is  sadly  unpoetic.  Look  at  this  little  Dek- 
kar  temple,  and  confess  it.  Remember  Philae,  and 
ask  forgiveness.  Why  love  the  Ptolemies  less,  be- 
cause you  love  the  Pharaohs  more  ?  Spite  of  Volney 
and  this  Nubian  moonlight,  itself  a  rich  reward  of 


NORTHWARD.  247 

long  voyaging,  the  Howadji  will  not  be  sad  and 
solemn  about  the  Egyptians,  because  they  were  a 
great  people,  and  are  gone.  The  Greeks  had  a 
much  finer  architecture,  and  a  much  more  graceful 
nature — they  were  not  so  old  as  these.  But  there 
were  elder  than  the  Egyptians,  and  wiser,  and  fairer, 
even  the  sons  of  the  morning;  for  heaven  lies  around 
the  world  in  its  infancy,  as  well  as  around  us. 

The  Howadji  left  the  little  temple  to  the  moon- 
light and  the  jackals.  The  village  was  startled  from 
sleep  again  by  our  return,  and  the  crew  were  sleep- 
ing upon  the  deck  ;  but  in  a  few  moments  there  was 
no  more  noise,  and  the  junk  was  floating  down  in  the 
moonlight,  while  its  choicer  freight  was  clouded  in 
the  aznre  mist  of  Latakia,  and  heard  only  the  sakias 
and  the  throbbing  oars,  and,  at  times,  the  wild, 
satanic  rowing-song  of  the  men,  which  Satan  Saleh 
led  with  his  diabolical  quaver  and  cry. 

Yet  when  another  day  had  burnt  away,  the  same 
moonlight  showed  us  Kalab-sheh,  the  largest  Nubian 
ruin.  It  is  directly  upon  the  tropic,  which  makes 
it  pleasant  to  the  imagination,  but  is  a  mass  of  un- 
interesting rubbish  of  Roman  days.  For  the  How- 
adji will  not  plead  for  Roman  remains  in  Egypt, 
which  have  no  more  character  than  Roman  art  else- 
where ;  and  Roman  art  in  Baalbec,  in  Egypt,  and 
in  Italy,  is  only  Grecian  art  thickened  from  poetry 


248  NILE    NOTES. 

into  prose.  It  is  one  vast  imitation,  and  the 
essential  character  is  forever  lost.  But  close  by  is 
a  small  rock  temple  of  the  "  golden  prime"  of 
Ramses  the  Great,  and  passing  the  animated  sculp- 
tures, and  entering,  the  Howadji  stands  between 
two  Doric  columns.  They  are  fluted,  and  except 
that  they  are  low,  like  foundation  columns,  have  all 
the  grace  of  the  Greek  Doric.  These  columns 
occur  once  more  near  Minyeh,  in  Egypt,  at  the 
caves  or  tombs  of  Beni  Hassan,  and  are  there  quite 
as  perfect  as  in  any  Grecian  temple.  In  this  moon- 
light, upon  the  very  tropic,  that  fact  looms  very 
significantly  upon  the  liowadji's  mind.  But  how 
can  he  indulge  speculation,  or  reach  conclusions, 
while  Saleh  who  bears  the  torch-crate  is  perpetually 
drawing  his  attention  to  the  walls,  on  which  are 
sculptured  processions  bearing  offerings  to  great 
Ramses,  who  built  this  temple,  and  who  seems  to 
have  done  every  thing  else  in  Egypt  until  the  Ptole- 
mies came?  There  are  rings  and  bags  of  gold, 
leopard-skins,  ostrich-eggs,  huge  fans,  and  beasts, 
lions,  gazelles,  oxen,  then  plants  and  skins.  A  his- 
torical sketch  occupies  another  wall — the  great 
Ramses,  represented  as  three  times  the  size  of  his 
foes,  pursuing  them  into  perdition.  There  is  a  little 
touch  of  a  wounded  man  taken  home  by  his  com- 
rades, while  a  child  runs  to  "announce  the  sad 


NORTHWARD.  249 

news  to  its  mother,"  pathetically  says  Sir  Gardner, 
speaking  of  sculptures  that,  to  the  Howadji's  eye, 
have  no  more  human  interest,  or  tenderness,  or 
variety  of  expression,  than  the  chance  forms  of 
clouds  or  foliage. 

But  the  Nubian  days  were  ending,  and  the  great 
gate  of  the  cataract  was  already  audible,  roaring  as 
it  turned.  Hassan  piloted  us  safely  through  the 
half-cataracts ;  and  the  fantastic  rock-vistas  about 
Philae  were  already  around  us.  Beautiful  in  the 
mild  morning  stood  the  holy  island,  full  of  fairy- 
figures  that  came  and  went,  and  looked,  and  lingered 
— Ariel-beauties  among  the  Caliban  grotesqueness 
of  the  pass.  It  was  the  vision  of  a  moment  only, 
scarcely  more  distinct  than  in  memory,  and  the  next 
we  were  pausing  at  Mahratta,  where  the  reis  of 
the  cataract,  by  the  terms  of  the  treaty,  was  bound 
to  pilot  the  boat  back  again  to  Syene. 


XXXIII. 

BY  THE  GRACE  OF  GOD- 

IT  was  a  bright,  sparkling  morning,  and  all  the 
people  of  Mahratta  seemed  to  be  grouped  upon  the 
shore  to  receive,  with  staring  wonder,  the  boat  that 
had  undergone  in  itself  the  Pythagorean  metempsy- 
chosis taught  by  the  old  teachers  at  neighboring 
Philae — the  boat  that  had  flown  southward  a  wide- 
winged  Ibis,  and  floated  slowly  back  again  a  cum- 
brous junk — a  swift  bird  no  longer,  but  a  heavy  bug 
rather,  sprawling  upon  the  water  with  the  long 
clumsy  oars  for  its  legs.  There  were  two  or  three 
slave-boats  at  Mahratta — although  we  had  passed 
scarce  a  sail  in  lonely  Nubia.  The  brisk,  busy  shore 
was  like  awaking  again  after  a  long  sleep — yet, 
believe  me,  it  was  only  as  one  seems  to  awake  in 
dreams.  For  the  spell  was  not  dissolved  at  Mah- 
ratta— nor  yet  at  Cairo — and  if  at  Beyrout  to  the 
eye,  yet  it  still  thralls  the  mind  and  memory. 

The  captain  of  the  cataract  was  absent,  piloting 
an  English  Howadji  through  the  rapids  ;  but  his 


BY    THE    GRACE    O  V    GOD.  251 

lieutenant  and  substitute,  one  of  the  minor  captains, 
and  our  former  friend  of  the  kurbash,  were  grinning 
gaily  as  we  drove  smoothly  up  to  the  bank — the 
latter  touching  up  a  dusky  neighbor  occasionally 
witli  his  instrument,  in  the  exuberance  of  his  de- 
lighted expectation  of  incessant  kurbashing  for  a 
brace  of  hours,  on  our  way  to  Syene.  The  motley 
crowd  tumbled  aboard.  As  at  Syene,  our  own 
crew  became  luxuriously  superfluous — for  a  morning 
they  were  as  indolent  as  the  Howadji,  and  tasted, 
for  that  brief  space,  the  delight  which  was  perpetual 
in  the  blue  cabin.  For  it  is  a  sorrow  and  shame  to 
do  any  thing  upon  the  Nile  or  in  Egypt  but  float, 
fascinated,  and  let  the  landscape  be  your  mind  and 
imagination,  full  of  poetic  forms.  An  Egyptian 
always  works  as  if  he  were  on  the  point  of  pausing, 
and  regarded  labor  as  an  unlovely  incident  of  the 
day.  The  only  natural  position  of  an  Eastern  is 
sitting  or  reclining.  But  these  Nile  sailors  sit  upon  . 
their  haunches,  or  inelegantly  squat  like  the  vases 
that  stand  in  the  tombs,  and  with  as  much  sense  of 
life  as  they.  The  moment  a  man  becomes  inactive 
upon  the  shore,  he  is  enchanted  into  a  permanent 
figure  of  the  landscape.  The  silence  enchants  him, 
and  makes  his  repose  so  profound  and  lifeless,  that 
it  deepens  the  impression  of  silence.  But  the  dusky 
denizens  of  Mahratta  leaped  and  scrambled  upon  the 


252  NILE    NOTES. 

boat,  like  impatient  souls  very  dubious  of  safe  ferry- 
age  ;  for  returning  to  the  cataract  confusion,  we 
return  to  our  old  similitudes.  Silence,  too,  shud- 
dered, as  they  rushed  yelping  upon  the  junk,  as  if 
its  very  soul  had  gone  out  of  it  forever :  and  piling 
themselves  upon  the  deck  and  the  bulwarks,  and 
seizing  the  huge,  cumbrous  oars,  they  commenced, 
under  brisk  kurbashing,  to  push  from  the  shore, 
quarrelling  and  shouting,  and  mad  with  glee  and 
excitement,  in  entire  insanity  of  the  "savage 
faculty." 

The  Howadji  stood  at  the  blue  cabin  door,  help- 
less— perhaps  hopeless,  in  the  grim  chaos,  and 
turning  backward,  as  the  boat  slid  from  the  shore 
upon  the  glassy  stream,  beheld  Nubia  and  the  far- 
ther South  faint  away  upon  the  rosy  bosom  of  the 
morning. 

The  day  was  beautiful  and  windless — the  air  clear 
and  brilliant.  No  wind  could  have  benefited  us,  so 
tortuous  is  the  channel  through  these  rapids  ;  and, 
once  fairly  into  the  midst  of  the  river,  its  strong, 
swift  stream,  eddying  toward  the  cataract,  swept  us 
on  to  the  frowning  battlements  of  rock  that  rise 
along  the  rapid.  The  oars  dipped  slightly — but 
another  power  than  theirs,  an  impetus  from  that  be- 
witched fountain,  in  the  most  glorious  glen  of  the 
mountains  of  the  moon,  shoved  us  on — thr  vr^ed, 


BY    THE    GRACE    OF    GOU.  253 

the  nearing  rapid,  the  exhilarating  mornir,g,  making 
this  the  most  exciting  day  of  the  Nile  voyaging. 
The  men,  tugging  by  threes  and  fours  at  the  oars, 
laughed,  and  looked  at  the  Howadji — their  backs 
turned  to  the  rapid,  and  mainly  intent  upon  the  kur- 
bash  which  was  frenziedly  fulfilling  its  functions. 
The  pilot,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  fast  and  firmly 
upon  the  rock  points  and  the  boat's  prow,  shouted 
them  suddenly  into  silence  at  times,  but  only  for  a 
moment — then  again,  like  eager,  fun-overflowing 
boys,  they  prattled  and  played  away. 

In  twenty  minutes  from  Mahratta,  we  were  close 
upon  the  first,  and  longest,  and  swiftest  rapid.  The 
channel  was  partly  cut  away  by  Mehemet  Ali, 
and  although  it  conceals  no  rocks,  it  is  so  very  nar- 
row, and  shows  such  ragged,  jagged  cliff-sides  to  the 
stream,  that  with  a  large  dahabieh  like  ours,  driving 
through  the  gurgling,  foaming,  and  fateful  dark 
waters,  it  is  a  bit  of  adventure  and  experience  to 
have  passed. 

The  instant  that  the  strange  speed  with  which  we 
swept  along,  indicated  that  the  junk  was  sliding 
down  the  horizontal  cataract,  and  the  dahabieh,  and 
Howadji,  and  crew  felt  as  chips  look,  plunging  over 
water-falls,  resistless,  and  entirely  mastered,  driving 
dreadfully  forward,  like  a  tempest-tortured  ship- 
that  moment,  the  pilot  thundered  caution  from  the 


254  NIL'E    NOTES. 

tiller,  and  a  3onfused  scrambling  ensued  upon  deck 
to  take  in  the  oars,  for  it  was  not  possible  for  us  to 
pass  with  such  wide-stretching  arms  through  the 
narrow  throat  of  the  rapid.  But  there  was  no  in- 
stant to  lose.  The  river,  like  a  live  monster,  plunged 
along  with  us  upon  his  back.  We,  too,  felt  his 
eager  motions  under  us — a  swiftness  of  smooth  un- 
dulation along  which  we  rode  ,  and  so  startling  was 
the  new,  sudden  speed,  when  we  were  once  on  the 
currenty  slope,  that  it  seemed  as  if  our  monster 
were  dashing  on  to  plunge  us  wrecked  against  the 
bristling  sides,  before  we  could  take  in  our  arm-like 
oars,  that,  rigid  with  horrible  expectation,  reached 
stiffly  out  toward  their  destruction. 

But  vainly  struggled  and  stumbled  the  "  savage 
faculty."  It  was  clear  enough  that  the  junk  was 
Fate's,  and  Fate's  only.  At  the  same  instant,  the 
Howadji  saw  and  felt  that  before  one  reluctant  oar, 
which  was  tied  and  tangled  inextricably,  could  be 
hauled  in,  its  blade  would  strike  a  rocky  reach  that 
stretched  forth  for  it  into  the  stream,  which  foamed 
and  fretted  at  the  momentary  obstruction,  then 
madly  eddied  forward.  But,  in  striking  the  rock, 
the  oar  would  throw  the  boat  with  its  broadside  to 
the  stream,  capsize  it,  and  send  Howadji,  crew,  and 
Mahratta  savages  beyond  kurbashing. 

They  saw  this  at  the  same  instant,  arid  the  whole 


BY    THE    GRACE    OF    GOD.  255 

boat's  company  saw  it  too,  and  the  pilot,  who 
shouted  like  one  mad,  yet  who  was  fixed  fast  to  his 
post,  for  a  single  swerve  of  the  rudder  would  be  as 
fatal  as  the  oar  against  the  rock.  The  kurbash 
raged,  and  fell,  and  flourished,  as  if  it  foresaw  the 
speedy  end  of  its  exercise  and  authority,  and  burned 
to 'use  up  all  its  vitality.  But  the  mental  chaos  of 
the  men  of  Mahratta  was  only  more  chaotic  in  this 
juncture.;  and  while  the  oar  still  stretched  to  its 
fate,  and  like  a  mote  upon  a  lightning  flash,  the 
frightfully-steady  boat  darted  through  the  rapid,  the 
Pacha  grasped  one  column  of  the  cabin  porch,  and 
the  other  Howadji  the  other,  awaiting  the  crisis 
which  should  throw  them  into  the  jaws  of  the 
monster,  who  would  dash  them  high  up  upon  the 
shore  below,  to  consume  at  leisure. 

All  this  was  seen  and  transpired  in  less  time  than 
you  occupy  in  reading  the  record.  The  pilot  in  vain 
endeavored  to  ease  her  from  the  side  toward  which 
she  was  tending,  and  on  which  still  and  hopelessly 
stretched  the  fatal  oar.  There  was  universal  silence 
and  expectation,  and  then  crash  !  struck  the  oar 
against  the  rock — was  completely  shivered  in  strik- 
ing, and  the  heavy  junk,  shuddering  a  moment,  but 
scarce  consciously,  and  not  swerving  from  her  des- 
perate way,  darted  forward  still,  and  drove  high 
upon  the  sandy  shore,  at  the  sudden  turning  of  the 


256  NILE    NOTES. 

rapid,  and  the  Howadji  had  safely  passed  the  most 
appalling  slope  of  the  cataract. 

Chaos  came  again  immediately.  The  pilot  de- 
scended from  his  post,  and  expressed  his  opinion 
that  such  accurate  and  able  pilotage  deserved  an 
extraordinary  bucksheesh,  implying,  with  ethics  not 
alone  oriental,  that  having  done  his  duty,  he  was  en- 
titled to  more  than  praise.  The  men  of  Mahratta 
smiled  significantly  at  the  Howadji,  as  if  such  re- 
markable exertions  as  theirs  were  possibly  hardly  to 
be  measured  by  merely  infidel  minds  ;  and  there 
was  a  general  air  of  self-satisfaction  pervading  all 
faces,  as  if  the  savage  faculty,  and  not  the  grace  of 
God,  had  brought  us  through  the  cataract. 

We  tarried  a  little  while  upon  the  shore,  and  then 
glided  again  down  the  swift  stream.  It  was  only 
swift  now,  not  startling,  and  the  rockiness  was  far- 
ther withdrawn,  and  there  were  smooth  reaches  of 
water.  "VVe  saw  several  Howadji  loitering  upon  a 
sandy  slope.  The  sun  seemed  not  to  sparkle,  as  be- 
fore the  descent,  in  the  excitement  of  the  morning, 
and  there  wras  the  same  old  sunny  tranquillity  of 
Egypt  breathing  over  the  dying  rages,  and  up 
through  the  rocky  ways  of  the  cataract.  It  was  the 
lull  and  repose  that  follow  intense  excitement,  and 
of  so  suggestive  a  character,  that  the  Howadji  re- 
called with  sympathy  the  aerial  aquarelle  of  Turner 


BY    THE    GRACE    OF    GOD.  257 

— the  summit  of  the  Gotthard  pass,  looking  toward 
Italy.  It  is  a  wondeiful  success  of  art ;  for  in  the 
warmth,  and  depth,  and  variety  of  the  hue,  which 
has  the  infinite  rarity  and  delicacy  of  Italian  air,  and 
which  seems  rather  a  glow  and  rosy  suffusion  than 
a  material  medium — in  that,  and  through  that,  the 
bloom  of  Italy  breathes  warm  beauty  far  into  Switz- 
erland, and  steeps  the  spectator  in  the  South.  The 
eye  clings  to  it,  and  bathes  in  it  as  the  soul  and 
memory  in  Italian  days.  So  in  the  tender  tranquil- 
lity of  that  morning  succeeding  the  rapids,  all  the 
golden  greenness  and  sweet  silence  of  Egypt  below 
Syene,  breathed  beauty  and  balm  over  what  was  the 
Ibis.  How  few  things  are  singly  beautiful !  Is 
tl'ere  any  single  beauty?  For  all  beauty  seems  to 
adorn  itself  with  all  other  beauty,  and  while  the 
lover's  mistress  is  only  herself,  she  has  all  the  beauty 
of  all  beautiful  women. 

Thus  with  songs  singing  in  their  minds,  came  the 
Howadji  swiftly  to  Syene.  The  current  bore  us 
graciously  along,  like  the  genii  that  serve  gracefully 
when  once  their  pride  and  rage  is  conquered.  The 
struggle  and  crisis  of  the  morning  only  bound  us 
more  nearly  to  the  river.  O  blue-spectacled  Gun- 
ning !  the  dream-languor  of  our  river  is  not  passion- 
less sloth,  but  the  profundity  of  passion.  And  I 
pray  Athor,  the  queen  of  the  West,  and  the  lady 


258  NILE    NOTES. 

of  lovers,   that    so  may  be  charactered  the  many 
winding  courses  of  your  life. 

But  Verde  Giovane  and  Gunning  had  flown 
northward  toward  Thebes,  leaving  only  miraculous 
memories  of  a  dejeuner  at  Philae,  upon  men's  minds 
in  Syene,  and  strange  relics  of  bones  and  fruit-skins 
upon  the  temple  ruins.  Beaming  elderly  John 
Bull  was  also  flown,  and  with  him  Mrs.  Bull,  doubt- 
lessly still  insisting  that  the  kaftan  was  a  night- 
gown. And  Wines  and  the  Irish  Doctor  who 
plunged  into  the  Nile  mystery  at  Alexandria,  were 
also  gone.  They  were  all  off  toward  Thebes.  But 
Nero  was  still  deep  in  Nubia,  solemnly  cursing  con- 
trary winds,  while  Nera,  quietly  reposing  in  the 
sumptuous  little  cabin,  shed  the  lovely  light  of  a 
new  thought  of  woman  like  a  delicate  dawn  upon 
the  dusky  mental  night  of  the  "  Kid's"  crew.  Far 
under  Aboo  Simbel,  too,  fluttered  the  blue  pennant, 
still  streaming  backward  to  the  south,  whither  it 
had  pointed.  The  English  consul's  dahabieh — a 
floating  palace  of  delights — was  at  Syene,  and  the 
leisure  barque  of  an  artist,  whose  pencil,  long  dip- 
ped in  the  sunshine  of  the  East,  will  one  day  magic- 
ally evoke  for  us  the  great  dream  of  the  Nile. 
But  we  lingered  long  enough  only  to  buy  some 
bread,  and  as  the  full  moon  goldened  the  palm  fringe 
of  the  river,  the  little  feline  reis,  happy  to  be  in 


BY    THE    GRACE    OF    GOD.  259 

command  once  more,  thrummed  the  long  silent  tara- 
bnka,  and  with  clapping  hands  and  long,  lingering, 
sonorous  singing,  the  boat  drifted  slowly  down  the 
river. 


XXXIV. 

FLAMINGOES, 

WHILE  the  Ibis  flies  no  longer,  but  floats,  a  junk, 
and  for  the  Howadji.  has  forever  furled  her  wings, 
they  step  ashore  as  the  boat  glides  idly  along,  and 
run  up  among  the  mud  cabins  and  the  palm-groves. 
They  were  always  the  same  thing,  like  the  lay- 
figure  of  an  artist,  which  he  drapes  and  disguises, 
and  makes  exhaustlessly  beautiful  with  color  and 
form.  So  the  day,  with  varying  lights  and  differing 
settings  of  the  same  relief,  made  endless  picture  of 
the  old  material.  You  are  astonished  that  you  do 
not  find  the  Nile  monotonous.  Palms,  shores,  and 
hills,  hills,  shores,  and  palms,  and  ever  the  old  pic- 
turesqueness  of  costume,  yet  fresh  and  beautiful 
every  day,  as  the  moon  every  month,  and  the  stars 
each  evening.  This  is  not  to  be  explained  by  nov- 
elty, but  by  the  essential  "beauty  of  the  objects. 
Those  objects  are  shapeless  mud  huts  for  instance, 
O  Reverend  Dr.  Duck,  voyaging  upon  the  Nile  with 
Mrs.  Duck  for  the  balm  of  the  African  breath,  and 


FLAMINGOES.  26' 

finding  the  scenery  sadly  monotonous.  But  birds 
cannot  sing  until  the  pie  is  opened,  0  Doctor,  nor 
can  eyes  see,  until  all  films  are  removed.  Yet 
stretching  your  head  a  little  upward,  as  we  sit  upon 
this  grass  clump  on  the  high  bank  of  the  river,  you 
shall  see  something  that  will  make  Egypt  always 
memorable  to  you.  For,  as  we  sat  there  one  morn- 
ing, we  saw  a  dark,  undulating  mass  upon  the  edge 
of  the  fog  bank  that  was  slowly  rolling  northward 
away.  I  thought  it  a  flight  of  pigeons,  but  the 
Pacha  said  that  it  did  not  move  like  pigeons. 

The  mass,  now  evidently  a  flight  of  birds,  came 
sweeping  southward  toward  us,  high  in  the  blue  air, 
and  veering  from  side  to  side  like  a  ship  in  tacking. 
With  every  sunward  sweep,  their  snow-white  bodies 
shone  like  a  shower  of  most  silver  stars,  or  rather, 
to  compare  large  things  wjth  small,  if  Bacchus  will 
forgive,  they  floated  suspended  in  the  blue  air  like 
flakes  of  silver,  as  the  gold  flakes  hang  in  a  vessel 
of  eau  de  Dantzic. 

There  was  a  graceful,  careless  order  in  their  fly- 
ing, and  as  they  turned  from  side  to  side,  the  long 
lines  undulated  in  musical  motion.  I  have  never 
seen  movement  so  delicious  to  the  eye  as  their  turn- 
ing sweep.  The  long  line  throbbed  and  palpitated 
as  if  an  electric  sympathy  were  emitted  from  the 
pure  points  of  their  wings.  There  was  nothing 


262  NILE    NOTES. 

tumbling  or  gay  in  their  impression,  but  an  intense 
feeling  of  languid  life.  Their  curves  and  move- 
ments were  voluptuous.  The  southern  sun  flashed 
not  in  vain  along  their  snovviness,  nor  were  they, 
without  meaning,  flying  to  the  south.  There  was 
no  sound  but  the  whirring  of  innumerable  wings, 
as  they  passed  high  over  our  heads,  a  living  cloud 
between  us  and  the  sun.  Now  it  was  a  streaming 
whiteness  in  the  blue,  now  it  was  as  mellowly  dark, 
as  they  turned  to  or  from  the  sun,  and  so  advanced, 
the  long  lines  giving  and  trembling  sometimes,  like 
a  flapping  sail  in  a  falling  breeze,  then  bellying 
roundly  out  again,  as  if  the  wind  had  risen.  When 
they  were  directly  above  us,  one  only  note  was 
dropped  from  some  thoughtful  flamingo,  to  call  at- 
tention to  the  presence  of  strangers  below.  But 
beyond  musket-shot,  even  if  not  beyond  fear,  as 
they  undoubtedly  were,  the  fair  company  swept  on 
unheeding — a  beautiful  boon  for  the  south,  and 
laden  with  what  strange  tidings  from  northern 
woods !  The  bodies  were  rosy  white  and  the  wings 
black,  and  the  character  of  their  flight  imparted  an 
air  of  delicacy  and  grace  to  all  association  with  the 
birds,  so  that  it  is  natural  and  pleasant  to  find  that 
Roman  Apicius,  the  Epicurean,  is  recorded  to  have 
discovered  the  exquisite  relish  of  the  flamingo's 
tongue,  and  a  peculiar  mode  of  dressing  it.  The 


FLAMINGOES.  263 

Howadji  had  not  been  unwilling  at  dinner  to  have 
tasted  the  delicate  tongue  that  shed  the  one  note  of 
warning.  But  long  before  dinner  the  whir  of  beau- 
tiful wings,  and  the  rose-cloud  of  flamingoes  had 
died  away  deep  into  the  south. 

The  poor,  unwinged  Ibis  claimed  no  kindred 
as  the  birds  flew  by,  but  clung  quietly  to  the  shore. 
The  sun,  too,  in  setting — well,  is  it  not  strange  that 
in  the  radiant  purple  of  sunset  and  dawn — the  fel- 
lahs, denizens  of  these  melancholy  mud  cabins, 
behold  the  promise  of  the  plague  ?  What  sympa- 
thy have  we  with  those  who  see  a  plague-spot  in 
the  stately  splendor  of  these  sunsets? 

Day  by  day,  as  we  descended,  we  were  enjoying 
the  feast  which  we  had  but  rehearsed  in  ascending. 
Edfoo,  Kum  Ombos,  El  Kab — names  of  note  and 
marks  of  memory.  Men  dwell  in  tombs  still,  and 
came  out  to  offer  us  all  kinds  of  trinkets  and  gay 
wares.  Then,  upon  dog-like  donkeys  we  rode  with 
feet  dangling  on  the  ground,  across  the  green  plain 
of  the  valley  to  the  Arabian  desert,  whose  line  is  as 
distinctly  and  straightly  marked  along  the  green,  as 
the  sea  line  along  the  shore.  The  cultivated  plain 
does  not  gradually  die  away  through  deeper  and 
more  sandy  barrenness  into  the  desert,  but  it  strikes 
it  with  a  shock,  and  ends  suddenly  ;  and  the  wide- 
waving  corn  and  yellow  cotton  grow  on  the  edge 


264  NILE    NOTES. 

of  the  sand,  like  a  hedge.  The  Howadji,  embarked 
in  his  little  cockle-boat  of  a  donkey,  puts  out  to 
desert  as  little  boats  to  sea,  and  scrambling  up  the 
steep  sand-sides  of  the  first  hills,  sees  upon  the 
grotto-walls  of  El  Kab  much  of  the  cotemporary 
history  of  the  life  and  manners  of  antique  Egypt. 
The  details  of  social  customs  and  the  habits  of  indi- 
vidual life  are  painted  upon  the  walls,  so  that  the 
peculiar  profession  of  the  occupant  of  the  tomb  can 
be  easily  determined.  But  let  us  cling  to  the  sun- 
shine as  long  as  possible ;  for  we  shall  explore  tombs 
and  darkness  enough  at  Thebes. 


XXXV. 

CLEOPATRA, 

"  ANT.     Most  Bweet  Queen." 

A  VOLUPTUOUS  morning  awakened  the  Howadji 
under  the  shore  at  Erment.  Cloudless  the  sky  as 
Cleopatra's  eyes,  when  they  looked  on  Caesar. 
Warmly  rosy  the  azure  that  domed  the  world,  as  if 
to-day  it  were  a  temple  dedicate  to  beauty.  And, 
stepping  ashore,  to  the  altars  of  beauty  we  repaired. 
No  sacrificial,  snowy  lambs,  no  garlands  of  gorgeous 
flowers,  did  the  worship  require.  The  day  itself 
was  flower,  and  feast,  and  triumphal  song.  The  day 
itself  lingered  luminously  along  the  far  mountain 
ranges,  paling  in  brilliance,  and  over  the  golden 
green  of  the  spacious  plain,  that  was  a  flower-enam- 
eled pavement  this  morning,  for  our  treading,  as  if 
unceasingly  to  remind  us  that  we  went  as  worship- 
pers of  beauty  only,  and  the  fame  of  beauty  that  fills 
the  world. 

The  Howadji  confesses  that  no  Egyptian  morning 

is  rnore  memorable  to  him  than  this ;  for  nothing 
12 


266  NILE    NOTES.     . 

Egyptian  is  so  cognate  to  our  warm-blooded  human 
sympathy  as  the  rich  romance  of  Cleopatra  and  her  Ro- 
man lovers.  After  the  austere  impression  of  the  great 
Egyptian  monuments,  this  simply  human  and  lovely 
association  was  greatly  fascinating.  Ramses  to-day 
was  not  great.  He  subdued  Babylon  ;  but  Cleopatra 
conquered  Julius  Caesar.  Marc  Antony  called  his 
Cleopatra-children,  kings  of  kings.  The  conqueror 
of  the  conqueror  was  the  divinity  of  the  day. 

I  know  not  if  it  were  the  magic  of  the  morning, 
but  the  world  to-day  was  Cleopatra.  Hers  was  the 
spirit  of  the  air,  the  lines  of  the  landscape.  In  any 
land,  the  same  day  would  have  suggested  her  perpe- 
tually to  the  imagination  ;  for  there  are  Greek  and 
Roman  days,  Italian  and  Sicilian,  Syrian  and  Afri- 
can. And  these  days  correspond  in  character  with 
the  suggestion  they  make.  Many  and  many  a  day 
had  the  Howadji  seen  and  loved  the  serpent  of 
old  Nile,  before  he  beheld  Africa  ;  many  a  long 
June  day  had  been  tranced  in  Italy  in  the 
Fornarina's  spell,  many  a  twilight  had  lingered 
along  Galilean  heights  with  him  to  whom  the 
Syrens  of  the  Syrian  sky,  Love,  and  Pleasure,  and 
Ambition,  sang  in  vain,  and  that  long  before  he  had 
trodden  the  broad  silent  way  of  waters,  that  leads 
the  Western  to  them,  and  which  keeps  them  forevei 
ool  and  consecrate  in  his  imagination.  Theso 


CLEOPATRA.  267 

dreams,  or  realities  of  feeling,  were  not  occasioned 
by  pictures  or  poems,  but  were  the  sentiment  of  the 
day.  The  soul  seems  then  sensuously  to  appre- 
hend the  intensity  of  emotion  that  is  symbolized. 
And  when  you  travel  into  the  lands  of  which  you 
read  and  dreamed,  you  will  be  touched  with  your 
want  of  surprise  in  their  delights.  But  many  an 
unheeded  silent  strain  of  sunshine,  or  night-appall- 
ing tempest,  had  sung  and  thundered  their  sacred 
secret  to  your  mind.  The  day,  therefore,  was  so 
much  Cleopatra,  that  only  the  fairest  fate  could 
have  drifted  us  upon  that  morning  to  the  shore  of 
Erment. 

The  forms  and  hues  of  old  Egypt  were  vague  and 
pale,  in  the  presence  of  this  modern  remembrance. 
I  confess  that  the  erudite  Sir  Gardner,  and  the 
poet  Martineau,  do  not  very  lovingly  linger  around 
Erment.  I  confess  their  facts.  The  temple  is  of 
the  very  last  genuine  Egyptian  days,  the  child  of  the 
dotage  of  Egyptian  art,  when  it  was  diseased  and 
corrupted  by  Roman  prostitution.  The  antique 
grandeur  is  gone.  It  is  the  remains  of  an  interreg- 
num between  the  old  and  the  new — the  faint  death- 
struggle  of  an  expiring  art,  or,  if  the  insatiable  poets 
demand,  a  galvanized  quiver  after  death.  All  that, 
if  the  erudite  and  the  antiquarian  require.  Here  ia 
no  architectural,  no  theological  or  mystical — roman- 


268  NILE    NOTES 

tically  historical,  and  very  dubiously  moral  (after 
the  Banyan  standard)  interest.  This  is  the  hiero- 
glyph that  might  balk  Champollion,  yet  which  the 
merest  American  Howadji  might  read  as  he  ran. 

For,  what  boots  it!  Is  not  Cleopatra  a  radiant, 
the  only  radiant  image,  in  our  Egyptian  annals'? 
Are  we  humanly  related  to  Menmophth,  or  any 
Amunoph  ?  Are  not  the  periods  of  history  epical  ly 
poetic,  that  treat  of  her;  while  they  grope  and 
reel  seeking  Thothmes  and  Amun  in  the  dark'? 
Besides,  Cleopatra  sat  glorious  in  beauty  upon 
Ramses's  throne ;  and  the  older  thrones  are,  the 
more  venerable  are  they.  And  if  the  great  darling 
of  Amun  Re  heroically  held  his  heritage,  grant  that 
the  child  of  Venus  well  lost  it,  melting  the  pearl  of 
her  inheritance  in  the  glowing  wine  of  her  love. 

Neocesar  should  have  been  a  god's  darling,  and 
so  have  died  young.  And  that  he  might  have  been, 
but  for  the  whim  of  nature,  who  will  not  give  the 
fairest  blossoms  to  the  noblest  trees.  As  if  she 
were  a  housewife  upon  allowance,  and  had  not 
illimitable  capacity  of  mating  beauty  with  power, 
wherever  they  meet.  But,  in  this  temple  of  Er- 
ment,  we  will  not  reproach  her.  For  nature  satis- 
fied the  ideal,  in  giving  Cleopatra  to  Caesar. 

Such,  I  suppose  to  have  been  the  ox-necked 
Abdallah's  musings,  as  he  stumbled  up  the  steep 


CLEOPATRA.  269    . 

bank  from  the  junk,  bearing  the  torch-crate;  for  all 
Egyptian  temples  require  great  light  to  be  thrown 
upon  the  interior  darkness  of  their  adyta,  or  holy 
of  holies;  and  skeptical  Howadji  suspect  that  the 
dog-faithful  Abdallah  did  it  more  satisfactorily  than 
the  priests,  who,  ex-officio,  were  the  intellectual 
lanterns  of  old  Egypt. 

Sundry  shapeless  heaps  of  dingy  blanket,  strewn 
upon  the  wind-sheltered,  sun-flooded  bank,  were 
the  crew.  They  had  diligently  rowed  all  night, 
and  had  crept  ashore  to  sleep.  They,  too,  had  reason 
to  bless  the  "  most  sweet  Queen,"  and  we  left  them 
honoring  the  day  and  its  divinity,  in  their  own  way. 

The  picture  of  that  morning  is  permanent.  Like 
all  Egyptian  pictures,  composed  of  a  few  grand 
outlines,  a  few  graceful  details  ;  but  charged,  brim- 
ming, transfigured  with  light,  and,  brooding  over 
all,  the  profound  repose  of  the  azure  sky — which 
does  not  seem  to  be  an  arch,  so  much  as  to  rest  rosily 
upon  the  very  eye — and  so  transparent,  that  the 
vision  is  not  bluffed  against  a  blue  dome,  but  sinks 
and  sinks  into  all  degrees  of  distance,  like  Undine's 
in  her  native  watery  atmosphere.  It  would  not 
surprise  the  happy  eye,  if  forms,  invisible  in  other 
qualities  of  atmosphere,  should  float  and  fade  in  the 
rosiness.  Such  delicate  depths  imply  a  creation  as 
fair ;  and  as  the  eye  swims  leisurely  along,  the 


270  NILE    NOTES. 

Howadji  feels  that  it  is  only  the  grossness  of  his 
seeing  that  hides  the  loveliness  from  his  apprehen- 
sion, and  yet  feeling  the  fascination,  he  believes  that 
somewhere  under  the  palms  upon  these  shores,  flow 
the  fountains  whose  water  shall  wash  away  all 
blindness.  And  if  anywhere,  why  not  here  ?  Here, 
where  she,  the  Queen  of  the  South  not  less  than  her 
sister  of  Sheba,  lived  and  loved.  For  the  Persian 
poets  sing  well,  in  the  moonlight,  that  only  the 
eyes  of  love  see  angels.  Yet,  until  that  fountain 
is  reached,  this  sky  is  the  dream,  the  landscape  its 
light-limned  realm,  and  at  Erment,  near  Esne,  neai 
Cleopatra,  who  but  the  gracious  and  graceful  Gha- 
wazee  are  the  people  of  those  dreams  ? 

The  Pacha,  with  the  cherished  one-barrel,  went 
before,  occasionally  damaging  the  symmetry  of 
family  circles  of  pigeons  upon  the  palms.  Abdallah 
plunged  like  a  mastiff  after  the  fallen  victims,  and 
bore  them  grinningly  in  his  hand;  while  I  sedately 
closed  the  rear,  dazed  in  the  double  radiance  of  the 
day  and  the  Golden-sleeve.  Our.  path  lay  across 
a  prairie  of  young  grain.  The  un waving  level 
stretched  away  to  the  Libyan  mountains,  that  still 
ranged  along  the  west,  silver-pale  in  the  intense 
sunlight.  And  still  as  we  went,  this  glad  morning, 
the  world  was  flower-paven,  and  walled  with  sap- 
phire. The  plain  seemed  to  shrink  from  the  least 


CLEOPATRA.  271 

unevenness,  lest  the  nourishing  Nile  should  not 
everywhere  overspread  it — or,  was  it  that  it  would 
lay  a  floor  broad  and  beautiful  enough  to  approach 
those  ruined  altars  of  beauty? 

For  they  are  ruins ;  and  although  it  is  a  temple 
built  by  Cleopatra  for  the  worship  of  Amun,  upon 
its  altars  now  no  other  homage  is  offered  than  to 
her.  Gorgeous  cactuses,  and  crimson-hearted  roses, 
and  glowing,  abundant  oleanders,  be  your  flower- 
offerings  when  you  bend  before  them  at  high,  hot 
noon,  and  pour  out  no  other  libations  there,  than 
reddest  and  most  delirious  wine. 

The  great  temple  is  quite  destroyed,  and  the 
remains  of  the  smaller  one,  like  all  the  temples  of 
Egypt,  are  quarries  of  materials  for  the  building 
of  the  neighboring  mud  villages  and  chance  factories 
which  Mehemet  AH  commenced,  and  which  will 
probably  gradually  fall  into  disuse  and  decay,  now 
that  he  is  gone.  The  temple  is  but  a  group  of 
columns  with  the  walls  of  a  court,  and  two  interior 
chambers,  upon  which  are  sculptures  representing 
Cleopatra  and  Neocesar,  with  godly  titles,  offering 
homage  and  gifts  to  the  gods.  The  few  remaining 
columns  rise  handsomely  from  the  sand  and  dust- 
heaps,  that  surround  all  temples  here.  They  are 
evidently  of  the  latest  Ptolemaic  days ;  but  to  the 
uninitiated  in  architectural  accuracy — to  those  who 


272  NILE    NOTES. 

can  also  enjoy  what  is  not  absolutely  perfect  in  its 
kind,  but  even  very  imperfect — these  groups  are 
yet  graceful  and  pleasing.  How  can  stately  sculp- 
tures, bearing  forms  so  famous,  be  otherwise,  in  a 
mud  and  sand  wilderness'?  The  sculptures  them- 
selves are  poor,  and  fast. crumbling.  Yet,  although 
fast  crumbling,  here  is  the  only  authentic  portrait 
of  Cleopatra.  This  is  she  of  whom  Enotarbus  said, 
in  words  that  shall  outlive  these  sculptures,  and 
give  her  to  a  later  age  than  anything  material  may 
attain — 

"  Age  can  not  wither  her — nor  custom  stale 
Her  inflnite  variety.     Other  women 
Cloy  the  appetites  they  feed — but  she  makes  hungry 
Where  most  she  satisfies.    For  vilest  things 
Become  themselves  in  her,  that  the  holy  priests 
Bless  her  when  she  is  riggish." 

The  Persian  poets  sing,  farther,  when  the  moon 
is  at  the  full,  that  only  lovers'  tongues  speak  truly. 

You  will  not  expect  to  find  a  perfect  portrait 
upon  these  walls,  and  will  see  her  sitting  and  hold- 
ing Neocesar  in  her  lap,  as  Isis  holds  Horus  at  Philas 
— while  she  offers  gifts  to  the  bull  Basis.  And 
although  this  temple  was  covered  all  over  with  the 
rudely-sculptured  form  and  face  of  the  fairest  queen 
of  history,  I  could  find  but  two  which  were  tolera- 
bly perfect  and  individual. 


CLEOPATRA  273 

The  first  is  upon  one  of  the  columns  of  the  trans- 
verse colonnade  of  the  portico.  The  features  are 
quite  small.  The  nose,  which  seems  strongly  to 
mark  the  likeness,  departs  from  all  known  laws  of 
nasal  perfection,  and  curves  the  wrong  way.  O, 
Isis — and  O,  Athor,  Greek  Aphrodite,  if  Cleopatra 
had  a  pug  nose  !  Yet  it  is  more  pug  than  aquiline, 
or  Grecian — a  seemingly  melancholy  occurrence  in 
a  face  so  famously  fair. 

But  I  found  that  this  peculiarity  of  feature,  by  its 
very  discord  with  the  canons  of  beauty,  suggested 
the  soul  that  must  have  so  radiantly  illuminated  the 
face  into  its  bewildering  beauty.  Greek  statues  are 
not  the  semblance  of  lovable  women.  The  faces 
are  fair,  but  far  away  from  feeling.  The  features  are 
exquisitely  carved,  and  the  graceful  balance  is  mu- 
sical to  the  eye.  But  they  lack  the  play  of  passion 
— the  heat-lightning  of  sentiment  and  soul  that 
flushes  along  a  thousand  faces  not  so  fair.  The  ex- 
pression partakes  of  the  quality  of  the  material,  and 
differs  from  life  as  that  from  flesh.  Beautiful  are  the 
forms  and  faces,  but  they  are  carved  in  cold,  color- 
less marble — not  in  rosy  flesh.  It  is  the  outline  of 
the  Venus  form,  not  her  face,  that  is  fascinating. 
Among  Greek  sculptures,  no  face  is  so  permanently 
beautiful  as  the  head  of  Clytie — and  that  because  it 

is  so  charged  with  the  possibility  of  human  experi- 
12* 


274  NILE    NOTES. 

ence.  The  others  do  not  seem  serenely  superior 
to  that  experience,  like  the  Egyptian  Colossi,  but 
simply  soulless.  The  beautiful  story  of  Clytie  is  felt 
through  her  face.  For  when  Apollo  deserted  her  for 
Leucotnoe,  she  revealed  his  love  to  the  father  of  her 
rival.  But  Apollo  only  despised  her  the  more,  and 
the  sad  Clytie  drooped  and  died  into  the  heliotrope, 
or  sun-flower,  still  forever  turning  toward  the  sun. 
Nor  less  fair  the  fate  of  her  rival,  who  was  buried 
alive  by  her  father ;  and  love-lorn  Apollo,  unable 
to  save  her,  sprinkled  nectar  and  ambrosia  upon  her 
grave,  which  reached  her  body,  and  changed  it  into 
a  beautiful  tree,  that  bears  the  frankincense.  How 
well  sound  these  stories  at  Erment,  while  we  remem- 
ber Cleopatra,  and  look  upon  her  likeness ! 

The  very  departure  from  the  ordinary  laws  of 
sculptured  beauty  only  suggests  that  loftier  and 
more  alluring,  where  the  soul  suffuses  the  features. 
And  this  being  ever  the  most  intimate  and  profound 
beauty,  the  queenly  charm  spread  from  the  face  as 
we  looked,  and  permeated  the  whole  person.  Cleo- 
patra stands  in  imagination  now,  not  a  beautiful 
brunette  merely,  but  a  mysteriously  fascinating  wo- 
man. "  My  serpent  of  old  Nile,"  was  a  truth  of 
the  lover's  tongue. 

Roman  and  man  as  Julius  Caesar  was,  he  was  too 
much  a  Roman  and  a  man  to  have  been  thrall  to 


CLEOPA1RA.    .  275 

prettiness  merely.  There  must  have  been  a  glo 
rious  greed  of  passion  in  an  Italian  nature  like  his 
and  Marc  Antony's,  which  only  the  very  soul  of 
southern  voluptuousness  could  have  so  satisfied  and 
enchained.  Nor  allow  any  western  feeling  to  mar 
the  magnificence  of  the  picture  which  this  place 
and  day,  set  with  those  figures,  offer  to  your  de- 
light. Let  us  please  imagination  with  these  stately 
figures  of  history.  Granting  all  the  immoralities  and 
improprieties,  if  they  seem  such  to  you,  let  them  go, 
as  not  pertinent  to  the  occasion.  But  the  grace,  and 
the  beauty,  and  the  power,  the  sun  behind  his  spots, 
are  the  large  inheritance  of  all  time.  Why  should 
we  insist  upon  having  all  the  inconvenience  of  co- 
temporaries,  whose  feet  were  pinched  and  sides 
squeezed  by  these  so  regal  figures?  Why  should 
we  encase  ourselves  triply  and  triply  in  a  close  ball 
of  petty  prejudices  and  enlightened  ideas,  and  go 
tumbling,  beetle-like,  through  the  moonlighted  halls 
of  history,  instead  of  floating  upon  butterfly-wings, 
and  with  the  song  and  soaring  of  the  lark  ?  The 
llowadji  will  use  his  advantage  of  distance,  and  not 
see  the  snakes  and  sharp  stones  which  he  knows  are 
upon  the  mountains,  but  only  the  graceful  grandeur 
of  the  outline  against  the  sky. 

Education  is  apt  to  spoil  the  poetry  of  travel  by 
so  starting  us  in  the  dry  ruts  of  prejudice,  or  even 


NILE    NOTES. 

• 

upon  the  turnpike  of  principle,  that  we  can  scarcely 
ever  see  the  most  alluring  landscape  except  at  right 
angles,  and  doubtfully,  and  hurriedly,  over  our  shoul- 
ders. Yet  if  Cleopatra  had  done  so,  would  the 
Howadji  have  tarried  atErment?  The  great  per 
sons  and  events  that  notch  time  in  passing,  do  so 
because  nature  gave  them  such  an  excessive  and 
exaggerated  impulse,  that  wherever  they  touch  they 
leave  their  mark  ;  and  that  intense  humanity  secures 
human  sympathy  beyond  the  most  beautiful  balance, 
which,  indeed,  the  angels  love,  and  which  we  are 
learning  to  appreciate. 

For  what  is  the  use  of  being  a  modern,  with  the 
privilege  of  tasting  every  new  day  as  it  ripens,  if  we 
can  not  leave  in  the  vaults  of  antiquity  what  we 
choose  ?  Was  Alexander  less  the  Great  because  he 
had  a  wry  neck?  Leave  the  wry  neck  behind. 
You  may  bring  forth  all  the  botches  of  the  stone- 
cutters, if  you  will,  but  mine  be  the  glorious  booty 
of  the  Laocoon,  of  the  Venus,  and  the  Apollo.  I 
shall  not,  therefore,  say  that  the  artist  who  wrought 
works  so  fair,  did  not  botch  elsewhere.  But  I  cer- 
tainly shall  not  inquire. 

In  like  manner  Julius  Caesar  and  Queen  Cleopatra 
being  of  no  farther  influence  upon  human  affairs, 
imagination  sucks  from  history  all  the  sweet  of  their 
story,  and  builds  honey-hives  nectarean.  The  How- 


CLEOPATRA.  277 

adji  fears,  that  the  clerical  imagination  at  Erment 
might  not  do  so — that  all  the  reform  and  universal 
peace  societies  would  miss  the  Cleopatra  charm.  But 
their  vocation  is  not  wandering  around  the  world 
and  being  awakened  by  voluptuous  mornings.  Their 
honey  is  hived  from  May-flowers  of  rhetoric  in  the 
tabernacle,  to  which  the  zealous  and  "  panoplied  in 
principle"  must  repair,  passing  Cleopatra  by. 

The  village  of  Erment  balances  singularly  this 
glowing  Ghazeeyah  fame  by  offsetting  the  undoubt- 
ed temple  of  the  doubtful  Cleopatra  with  a  vague 
claim  of  being  the  birth-place  of  Moses.  We  did 
not  tarry  long  enough  to  resolve  the  question,  al- 
though as  he  was  found  by  Pharaoh's  daughter 
among  the  bulrushes  of  the  lower  Nile,  there  is  no 
glaring  impossibility  that  he  may  have  been  born  at 
Ermeut. 

Disregarding  Moses,  we  cordially  cursed  the  shekh 
of  the  village,  who  has  coolly  put  his  mud  hovel  up- 
on the  roof  of  the  adyta  of  the  temple,  and  quite  as 
coolly  converted  the  adyta  themselves  into  dun- 
geons. The  modern  Egyptian  has  not  the  slightest 
curiosity  or  interest  in  the  noble  remains  of  his  land. 
He  crawls  around  them,  and  covers  them  with  mud 
cells,  in  which  he  and  his  swarm  like  vermin.  But 
speak  them  fair  as  you  would  water  rats.  Without 
ideas,  how  can  they  feel  the  presence  of  ideas  ?  We 


278  NILE    NOTES. 

passed  through  the  mud-walled  court  below  the 
shekh's  dwelling  to  reach  the  adyta  of  the  temple 
The  court  was  grouped  with  Arnout  soldiers,  crouch- 
ing over  a  fire,  smoking  and  chatting.  These  Alba- 
nians were  the  fiercest  part  of  Grandfather  Mehe- 
raet's  army.  They  revolted  when  Belzoni  was  in 
Cairo,  drove  the  Pacha  into  the  citadel,  ravaged  the 
city  at  leisure,  and  were  then  quieted.  But  they 
became  altogether  too  fierce — assassinating  quiet 
and  moral  Mohammedans  on  the  slightest  provoca- 
tion, and  Christians  as  they  would  cockroaches — 
and  Grandfather  Mehemet  was  obliged  to  send  the 
most  of  them  to  the  destructive  climate  of  upper 
Ethiopia,  and  so  be  gently  rid  of  them. 

They  are  light-complexioned,  sharp-featured, 
smart-looking  men,  else  had  Mehemet  AH  not 
used  them  so  constantly,  and  are  by  far  the  most 
intelligent-looking  class  in  Egypt ;  for  they  have 
dashes  of  Greek  blood  in  their  veins,  and  modern 
Greek  blood  is  thick  with  knavery.  But  their  faces 
are  as  bad  as  bright.  Like  fish,  they  seem  to  have 
cold  blood,  and  you  feel  that  they  would  rather  shoot 
you  than  not,  as  boys  prefer  sticking  flies  to  letting 
them  be.  Hence  a  certain  interest  with  which  the 
passing  Howadji  regards  their  silver-mounted  pis- 
tols. 

We  paused  a  moment  at  the  door  of  the  adytum, 


CLEOPATRA.  279 

and  a  swarm  of  unclean  women  came  clustering  out. 
They  were  the  relatives  of  the  prisoners  whom  the 
government  held  in  the  dungeons.  There  was  no 
light  in  the  small  chamber  which  we  stooped  to 
enter,  except  what  curious  daylight  stole  shrinking- 
ly  in  at  the  low  door.  Ahdallah  lighted  his  torch, 
and  we  looked  around  upon  the  holy  of  holies  of  < 
Queen  Cleopatra.  The  adytum  was  small,  and 
reeked  with  filth  and  stench.  Two  or  three  prison- 
ers lay  miserably  upon  the  damp  floor,  and  we  held 
our  glaring  torch  over  them,  and  looked  at  the 
sculptures  on  the  walls.  But  without  much  heart. 
It  was  sorry  work,  and  we  made  it  brief— the  indul- 
gence of  curiosity  and  sentiment  in  so  sad  a  society. 

There  was  a  little  inner  room,  upon  the  walls  of 
which  we  found  the  other  portrait  of  the  queen. 
But  I  could  not  remain — imagination  and  the  mere 
human  stomach  recoiled.  For  in  this  adytum  of 
adyta  in  Cleopatra's  temple — the  olive-browed — 
the  odorous — was  uncleanness  such  as  scarcely  the 
pilgrim  to  the  Tarpeian  rock  has  conceived. 

We  passed  through  the  court  unshot,  and  through 
the  dusty  village,  whose  myriad  dogs,  and  of  espe- 
cial foul  fame  even  in  Egypt,  barked  frantically,  and 
so  emerged  upon  the  corn  stubble  and  the  coarse 
hilfeh  grass,  upon  the  river  bank.  Then  through  a 
palm-grove  we  entered  upon  greener  reaches,  and 


280  NILE    NOTES. 

sat  down  upon  a  high  point  over  the  river  to  await 
the  boat,  which  was  to  float  slowly  down  and  meet 
us.  The  perfection  of  the  day  lacked  only  a  vision 
of  leisure,  graceful  life.  And  what  other  could  the 
vision  be  upon  that  point  in  the  calm  air,  high  over 
the  calm  water,  but  that  of  the  queen's  barge, 
sumptuously  gliding  upon  the  golden  gleam  ?  Be- 
hold it,  dreamer,  where  it  comes  : 

"  The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnished  throne, 
Burned  on  the  water :  the  poop  was  beaten  gold, 
Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed,  that 
The  winds  were  love-sick  with  them  :  the  oars  were  silver, 
Which  to  the  tune  of  flutes  kept  stroke,  and  made 
The  water  which  they  beat  to  follow  faster, 
As  amorous  of  their  strokes.    For  her  own  person, 
It  beggared  all  description :  she  did  lie 
In  her  pavilion  (cloth  of  gold,  of  tissue,) 
O'erpicturing  that  Venus,  where  we  see 
The  fancy  outwork  nature.     On  each  side  her 
Stood  pretty  dimpled  boys,  like  smiling  Cupids 
With  diverse-colored  fans,  whose  wind  did  seem 
To  glow  the  delicate  cheeks  which  they  did  cool — 
And  what  they  undid,  did." 

'•  O  rare  for  Antony !" 

"  Her  gentlewomen  like  the  Nereides, 
So  many  mermaids,  tended  her  i'  the  eyes, 
And  made  their  bends  ailornings.     At  the  helm 
A  seeming  mermaid  steers,  the  silken  tackle 
Swells  with  the  touches  of  those  flower-soft  hands, 
That  yarely  frame  the  office.     From  the  barge 
A  strange,  invisible  perfume  hits  the  sense 
Of  the  adjacent  wharves.     The  city  cast 
Her  people  out  upon  her,  and  Antony, 
Enthroned  in  the  market-place,  did  sit  alone, 


CLEOPATRA.  981 

Whistling  to  the  air,  which,  but  for  vacancy, 
Had  gone  to  gaze  on  Cleopatra,  too, 
And  made  a  gap  in  nature." 

"  Rare  Egyptian." 

"  There's  the  junk,"  said  the  Pacha. 

"  She  be  float  very  quick,"  said  Golden-Sleeve, 
and  sliding  down  the  sand,  we  stepped  on  board  and 
gave  chase  to  fancy's  fair  flotilla.  Fair  and  fleet, 
it  floated  on,  away,  nor  ever  comes  to  shore.  But 
still  through  the  cloudless  calm  of  sky  and  stream 
your,  dreaming  sees  it  pass,  with  measured  throb  of 
languid  oars,  voluptuous  music  voicing  the  day's 
repose. 

I?  the  afternoon,  we  dropped  leisurely  down  the 
river  to  Thebes.  Before  sunset  we  were  moored  to 
the  shore  of  Luxor,  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  stream, 
and  almost  in  the  shadow  of  the  temple.  A  cluster 
of  Howadji's  boats  clung  to  the  shore  with  gay 
streamers  and  national  flags,  and  all  over  the  shore 
sat  and  stood  groups  of  natives  with  trinkets  and 
curiosities  to  sell,  or  donkeys  to  let.  We  strolled 
up  to  the  temple  of  Luxor,  and  looked  westward 
over  the  mountains  of  the  "Libyan  suburb,"  as  He- 
rodotus calls  the  part  of  the  city  upon  the  western 
shore.  It  was  covered  with  temples  and  tombs 
then,  but  the  great  mass  of  the  city  was  on  the  east- 
ern bank,  where  Luxor  now  stands.  The  highlands 


282  NILE    NOTES. 

were  exquisitely  hued  in  the  sunset.  But  Patience 
was  so  belabored  with  an  universal  shriek  of  buck- 
sheesh,  that  she  fled  to  the  junk  again,  and  recovered 
in  the  cool  calm  of  Theban  starlight. 


XXXVI. 

MEMNON, 

"Heard  melodies  are  weet, — but  those  unheard  are  sweeter." 

FROM  earliest  childhood  Memnon  was  the  central, 
commanding  figure  in  my  fancies  of  the  East.  Ris- 
ing imagination  struck  first  upon  his  form,  and  he 
answered  in  music — wondrous,  wooing,  winning, 
that  must  needs  vibrate  forever,  although  his  voice 
is  hushed.  Whether  this  was  from  an  instinctive 
feeling,  that  this  statue  and  its  story  were  a  kind  of 
completeness  and  perfection  in  art — the  welcome 
recognition  of  art  by  nature — or  more  probably 
from  the  simple  marvellousness  and  beauty  of  the 
tale,  I  shall  inquire  of  the'  Sphinx.  As  we  passed  up 
the  river,  and  I  beheld  in  the  solemn,  sunless  morn- 
ing light,  like  a  shadowed,  thoughtful  summer  day, 
the  majestic  form  sitting  serenely  upon  the  plain, 
the  most  prominent  and  noticeable  object  in  the 
landscape,  I  knew  that  memories  would  linger 
around  him  as  hopes  had  clustered,  and  that  his 
calm  grandeur  would  rule  my  East  forever. 


2S4  NILE    NOTES. 

For  throned  upon  ruined  Thebes  sits  Memnon, 
himself  a  ruin,  but  regal  still.  Once  seen  he  is 
always  seen,  and  sits  as  uncrumbling  in  memory  as 
in  the  wide  azure  silence  of  his  Libyan  plain. 
Daily  comes  the  sun  as  of  old,  and  inspires  him  no 
longer.  Son  of  the  morning  !  why  so  silent?  Yet 
not  dumb  utterly,  sing  still  the  Persians,  when  poets 
listen,  kindred  sons  of  the  morning. 

Yearly  comes  the  Nile  humbly  to  his  feet,  and 
laving  them,  pays  homage.  Then  receding  slowly, 
leaves  water  plants  wreathed  around  the  throne,  on 
which  he  is  sculptured  as  a  good  genius  harvesting 
the  lotus,  and  brings  a  hundred  travellers  to  perpe- 
tuate the  homage. 

The  history  of  art  says  little  of  Memnon  and  his 
mate,  and  the  more  perfect  Colossi  of  Aboo  Simbel. 
Yet  it  is  in  these  forms  that  the  Howadji  most 
strongly  feels  the  maturity  of  the  Egyptian  mind — 
more  strongly  than  in  the  temples  whose  sculptures 
are  childish.  But  here  you  feel  that  the  artist  re- 
cognized, as  we  do  to-day,  that  serene  repose  is  the 
attitude  and  character  of  godlike  grandeur. 

Nor  are  there  any  works  of  art  so  well  set  in  the 
landscape,  save  the  Pestum  temples  in  their  sea- 
shored,  mountain-walled  prairie  of  flowers.  Stand- 
ing between  the  columns  of  Neptune's  temple  at 
Pestum,  let  the  lover  of  beauty  look  out  over  the 


M  E  M  N  0  N  .  285 

bloom-brilliant  plain  to  the  blue  sea,  and  meditate 
of  Memnon.  Then,  if  there  be  pictures  or  poems  or 
melodies  in  his  mind,  they  will  be  Minerva-born, 
and  surprise  himself.  Yet  he  will  have  a  secreter 
sympathy  with  these  forms  than  with  any  temple, 
how  grand  or  graceful  soever.  Yes,  and  more  than 
with  any  statue  that  he  recalls;  And  that  sympathy 
will  be  greater  in  the  degree  that  these  are  grander. 
Not  the  elastic  grace  of  the  Apollo  will  seem  so  cog- 
nate to  him  as  the  melancholy  grandeur  of  Memnon. 
For  these  forms  impress  man  with  himself.  These 
are  our  forms,  and  how  wondrously  fashioned  !  In 
them,  we  no  longer  succumb  to  the  landscape,  but 
sit  individual  and  imperial,  under  the  sky,  by 
the  mountains  and  the  river.  Man  is  magnified  in 
Memnon. 

These  sublime  sketches  in  stone  are  an  artist's 
work.  They  are  not  mere  masses  of  uninformed 
material.  And  could  we  know  to-day  the  name  of 
him  who  carved  them  in  their  places,  not  the  great- 
est names  of  art  should  be  haloed  with  more  radiant 
renown.  In  those  earlier  days,  art  was  not  content 
with  the  grace  of  nature,  but  coped  with  its  pro-- 
portions. Vain  attempt,  but  glorious !  It  was  to 
show  us  as  we  are  ideally  in  nature,  not  the  great- 
est, but  the  grandest.  And  to  a  certain  degree  this 
success  is  achieved.  The  imitative  Romans  essayed 


286  NILE    NOTES 

the  same  thing.  But  their  little  men  they  only 
made  larger  little  men  by  carving  them  fifty  feet 
high.  Out  of  Nero,  Tiberius,  or  Caligula,  to  make 
an  imposing  work  of  art,  although  you  raised  the 
head  to  the  clouds,  was  more  than  Roman,  or  Greek, 
or  any  human  genius  could  achieve.  It  was  still 
littleness  on  a  great  scale.  Size  is  their  only  merit, 
and  the  elaborate  detail  of  treatment  destroys,  as 
much  as  possible,  all  the  effect  of  size.  But  the 
Egyptian  Colossi  present  kings,  of  kingliness  so 
kingly,  that  they  became  gods  in  the  imagination 
of  men,  and  remain  gods  in  their  memories. 

Vain  attempt,  says  truly  the  thoughtful  artist. 
But  glorious,  responds  the  poet.  Vain  and  glorious 
as  the  attempt  of  youth  to  sculpture  in  hard  life  its 
elastic  hope.  Failure  fairer  than  general  success. 
Like  the  unfinished  statues  of  Michael  Angelo — 
unfinished,  as  if  an  ideal  ever  too  lofty  and  various 
haunted  his  imagination,  whereto  human  tools  were 
insufficient.  Alone  in  sculpture,  Michael  Angelo's 
Night  and  Moses  are  peers  of  the  realm  of  Memnon 
and  the  Aboo  Simbel  Colossi. 

Looking  into  the  morning  mists  of  history  and 
poetry,  the  Howadji  finds  that  Homer  mentions 
Memnon  as  a  son  of  Aurora  and  Titho,  King  of 
Ethiopia,  and  brother  of  Priam,  the  most  beautiful 
of  warriors,  who  hastened  with  myriads  of  men  to 


M  E  M  N  O  N  .  287 

assist  uncle  Priam  against  the  Greeks.  Achillea 
slew  Memnon  under  the  walls  of  Troy,  and  the 
morning  after  his  death,  as  Aurora  put  aside  the 
darkness,  and  looked  vaguely  and  wau  along  the 
world,  the  first  level  look  that  touched  the  lips  of 
the  hitherto  silent  statue  upon  the  plain,  evoked 
mysterious  music.  There  were  birds,  too,  Mem  non- 
ides,  who  arose  from  out  the  funeral  pyre  of  Mem- 
non, and  as  he  burned,  fought  fiercely  in  the  air,  so 
that  more  than  half  fell  offerings  to  his  manes. 
Every  year  they  return  to  renew  the  combat,  and 
every  year,  with  low  wailings,  they  dip  their  wings 
in  the  river  water,  and  carefully  cleanse  the  statue. 
Dew-diamonded  cobwebs,  fascinating  fable,  O  his- 
tory ! 

Emperors,  historians,  and  poets,  heard  this  sound, 
or  heard  of  it,  nor  is  there  any  record  of  the  phe- 
nomenon anterior  to  the  Romans.  Strabo  is  the 
first  that  speaks  of  it,  and  Strabo  himself  heard  it. 
But  the  statue  was  then  shattered,  and  he  did  not 
know  if  the  sound  proceeded  from  the  Colossus  or 
the  crowd.  Singularly  enough,  the  sound  is  not 
mentioned  before  the  statue  was  broken,  nor  after 
it  was  repaired,  a  space  of  about  two  hundred  years'. 
Yet,  during  that  time,  it  uttered  the  seven  mystic 
vowels,  which  are  the  very  heart  of  mysteries  to 
us.  To  Hadrian,  the  emperor,  it  sang  thrice  of  a 


2S8  NILE    NOTES. 

morning,  yet  to  the  Emperor  JSeverus,  who  repair- 
ed it,  it  was  always  silent.  But  Severus  came  as  a 
raging  religionist,  a  pious  pagan,  while  Hadrian 
stood  with  Antinous,  whom  the  morning  loved  and 
stole  early  away.  For  they  die  young  whom  the  gods 
love,  and  Aurora  is  their  friend.  The  Persian  poets 
would  like  to  be  quoted  here,  but,  O  Persians,  it 
was  your  King  Cambyses  who  shattered  our  statue. 
You  may  yet  read  the  words  sculptured  upon  its 
sides,  speaking  sadly  and  strangely  out  of  the  dim 
depths  of  that  antiquity,  which  yet  waxed  and 
waned  under  the  same  blue  sky,  with  the  same 
mountain  outline  upon  which  your  eye,  still  wan- 
dering from  Memnon,  waves  away  into  rosy  reverie. 
"  I  write  after  having  heard  Memnon.  Cambyses 
hath  wounded  me,  a  stone  cut  into  the  image  of  the 
sun-king.  I  had  once  the  sweet  voice  of  Memno, 
but  Cambyses  has  deprived  me  of  the  accents 
which  express  joy  and  grief." 

"  You  relate  grievous  things — your  voice  is  now  obscure, 
O  wretched  Statue !  I  deplore  your  fate." 

For  these  are  ruins.  Memnon  is  a  mass  of  square 
Blocks  of  sandstone,  from  the  waist  upward.  His 
mate  is  less  shattered.  In  Memnon,  of  course,  the 
original  idea  is  only  hinted.  But  they  were  to  be 
seen  from  a  distance,  and  so  seen,  they  have  yet  hu- 


MEMNON.  2S9 

man  grandeur.  Memnon  has  still  a  distinct  and 
mysterious  interest;  for  no  myth  of  the  most  grace- 
ful mythology  is  so  significant  as  its  story. 

Science  rushes  in  explanatory,  with  poetic  theo- 
ries of  sounding  stones  in  all  countries.  Humboldt, 
for  Humboldt,  as  we  saw,  is  a  poet,  is  only  too  glad 
to  find  upon  the  banks  of  the  South  American  Oro- 
noko,  granite  rocks  hailing  the  morning  with  organ 
majesty  of  music.  He  ascribes  the  sound  to  the 
effect  of  difference  of  temperature  between  the  sub- 
terranean and  outer  air.  At  Syene,  too,  unimagin- 
ative French  naturalists  have  heard  a  sonorous 
creaking  in  the  granite  quarries,  and  Napoleon's 
commission  heard,  rising  from  the  granite  ruins  of 
Karnak,  the  same  creak,  at  morning.  Yet  were  it  a 
vibration  of  expanding  and  contracting  stone  masses, 
why  still  and  forever  silent,  0  mystic  Memnon ! 

Priests  clambered  over  night  into  its  lap,  and 
struck  a  metallic  stone  at  sunrise — exclaims  erudi- 
tion and  Sir  Gardner,  who  climbed  into  the  same 
lap  at  noonday,  and  striking  the  stone  with  a  little 
hammer,  produced  a  sound,  which  the  listening 
peasants  described  in  the  same  terms  that  Strabo 
uses.  But  were  priests  that  struck  thrice  for  Em- 
peror Hadrian  so  unsycophantic  grown,  that  even 
for  Severus,  the  restorer  of  their  statue  and  of  their 

worship,  they  would  not  strike  at  all  ? 
13 


290  NILE    NOTES. 

Back  into  romance,  mystic  Memnon  !  Neither 
the  priests  who  cajoled  with  it — nor  the  Pharaoh 
who  built  it — nor  the  wise  who  deepen  its  mystery, 
can  affect  the  artistic  greatness  of  the  work,  or  the 
poetic  significance  of  its  story. 

The  priests  and  Pharaohs  died,  and  their  names 
with  them.  But  Memnon  remains,  not  mute, 
though  silent,  and  let  the  heirs  of  Amunoph  III. 
claim  it  as  his  statue,  from  fame,  poetry,  and  thought 
if  they  dare  ! 

Memnon  and  his  mate  sat  sixty  feet  into  the  air, 
before  a  temple  of  the  said  Amunoph — of  which  a 
few  inarticulate  stones  lie  among  the  grain  behind. 
From  them  to  the  river,  for  about  a  mile's  distance, 
went  the  Strada  Regia — the  street  royal  of  Thebes. 
There  was  a  street !  upon  which,  probably,  neither 
Grace  church  nor  Trinity  would  have  been  impos- 
ing. Yet  we  are  proud  of  the  Neapolitan  Toledo — 
of  the  Roman  Corso — of  the  Berlin  Unter  den  Lin- 
den— of  the  Parisian  Boulevards— of  London  Re- 
gent street,  and  we  babble  feebly  of  Broadway. 
But  oh !  if  Theban  society  was  proportioned  to 
Thebes,  to  have  been  a  butterfly  of  that  sunshine, 
a  Theban  sauntering  of  a  sultry  January  morning 
along  the  Strada  Regia,  and  to  have  paused  in  the 
shadow  of  Memnon  and  have  taken  a  hand — any 
hand,  for  the  mummy  merchant  here  will  select  you 


MEMNON.  .    291 

a  score  from  under  his  robe,  shrivelled,  black,  tough, 
rmoked-beef  sort  of  hands — and  not  her  lover  could 
distinguish  the  olive  tapers  of  Thothmes  III.'s  dar- 
ling, the  princess  Re-ni-no-fre,  from  the  fingers  of 
the  meanest  maid  that  did  not  dare  look  at  her. 

Here  we  stand  in  the  shadow  of  Memnon  on  a 
sultry  January  morning,  but  the  princess  who  should 
meet  us  here,  lies  dreamless  and  forever  in  those 
yellow  hills.  Sad  moralists,  these  mummy  mer- 
chants, yet  they  say  not  a  word  ! 

An  earthquake  and  Cambyses  divide  the  shame  of 
the  partial  destruction  of  Memnon ;  but  it  cannot  be 
destroyed.  This  air  will  cheat  time  of  a  prey  so 
precious.  Yearly  the  rising  Nile  heaps  its  grave 
around  it.  Gradually  the  earth  will  resume,  into 
its  bosom,  this  mass  which  she  bore — and  there  will 
hold  it  more  undecaying  than  the  mountains,  the 
embalmed  bodies  of  its  contemporaries.  Unworn  in 
an  antiquity  in  which  our  oldest  fancies  are  young, 
it  will  endure  to  an  unimagined  future,  then,  god- 
like, vanish  unchanged. 

Pause,  poet,  shoreward  wending.  Upon  the  level 
length  of  green  young  grain,  smooth  as  the  sea-calm, 
sits  Memnon  by  his  mate.  If  he  greet  the  sun  no 
longer  in  rising,  feel  in  this  serene  sunset  the  song 
of  his  magnificent  repose.  The  austere  Arabian 
highlands  a>'e  tender  now.  The  lonoly  Libyan 


292     •  NILE    NOTES. 

heights  are  sand  no  more,  but  sapphire.  In  ever 
delicater  depths  of  blue  and  gold  dissolve  the  land- 
scape and  the  sky.  It  is  the  transfiguration  of  na- 
ture, which  each  of  these  sunsets  is — sweet,  and 
solemn,  and  sad. 

Pause,  poet,  and  confess,  that  if  day  dies  here  so 
divinely,  the  sublimest  human  thought  could  not 
more  fitly  sing  its  nativity  than  with  the  voice  of 
Memnon. 


XXXVII. 

DEAD   KINGS, 

A  DAZZLING  desert  defile  leads  to  the  kings'  tombs 
at  Thebes.  The  unsparing  sun  burned  our  little 
cavalcade  as  it  wound  along.  The  white,  glaring 
waste  was  windless ;  for,  although  its  hill-walls  are 
not  lofty,  the  way  is  narrow,  and  stony,  and  devious. 
So  dreary  a  way  must  have  made  death  drearier  to 
those  death-doomed  royalties.  But  we  donkeyed 
pleasantly  along,  like  young  immortals  with  all 
eternity  before ;  and  to  us,  death,  and  tombs,  and 
kings,  were  myths  only. 

And  what  more  are  they,  those  old  Egyptian 
monarchs,  for  whom  these  tombs  were  built  ?  Catch, 
if  you  can,  these  pallid  phantoms  that  hover  on  the 
edge  of  history.  King  Apappus  is  more  a  brain-vapor 
than  Hercules,  and  our  fair,  far  princess  Re-ni-no-fre 
than  our  ever  sea-fresh  Venus.  We  must  believe  in 
Apollo  and  the  Muses  ;  but  Amun-m-gori  III.  is  ad- 
mitted into  history  solely  by  our  grace.  So  much  a 


294  NILE    NOTES. 

• 

living  myth  surpasses  a  dead  man  !  Give  me  the 
Parthenon,  and  you  shall  have  all  the  tombs  of  all 
the  Theban  kings. 

They  were  separated  from  the  rest  of  the  world 
in  the  tomb  as  in  the  palace.  So  regal  was  their 
royalty  that  no  inferior  was  company  select  enough 
for  their  corpses.  Unhappy  hermits,  they  had  to  die 
for  society,  and  then,  unhappier,  found  only  them- 
selves. Fancy  the  mummied  monarchs  awaking 
immortal  and,  looking  round,  to  find  themselves 
and  ancestors  only  !  "  Nothing  but  old  Charlotte," 
said  the  third  saint  George  of  England.  And  the 
sameness  of  the  old  story  must  have  infused  most 
plebeian  thoughts  and  desires  of  society,  more 
spirited  though  less  select,  into  the  mighty  mon- 
archs' minds.  For,  imagine  the  four  English  Georges 
buried  together,  and  together  awaking — would  any 
celestial  imagination  fancy  that  the  choicest  coterie 
of  heaven  ? 

We  young  immortals,  donkeying  of  a  bright,  blue 
morning,  under  blue  cotton  umbrellas,  and  cheer- 
fully chatting,  can  thus  moralize  upon  monarchs  at 
leisure,  and  snap  our  fingers  at  scurvy  sceptres, 
and  crowns  that  make  heads  lie  uneasy,  and  dribble 
Hamlet  in  the  churchyard,  until  we  are  surfeited 
with  self-complacent  sentimentality.  But  contem- 
porary men,  now  adjacent  mummies,  looked  on,  I 


DEAD    KINGS.  295 

suppose  with  more  dazzled  eyes  when  a  dead  king, 
passing,  made  this  defile  alive. 

Possibly  men  were  blinded  by  the  blaze  of  roy- 
alty in  those  days,  as,  spite  of  the  complacent 
American  Howadji,  they  are  in  some  others.  And 
a  thoughtful  Theban  watching  the  progress  of  a 
royal  funeral,  over  the  Nile  in  barges,  up  the  Strada 
Regia,  wherein  the  mighty  Memnon  shielded  the 
eyes  of  many  from  the  setting  sun,  then  winding 
with  melancholy  monotony  of  music,  and  gusty 
wail,  and  all  human  pomp,  through  the  solitary, 
sandy,  stony,  treeless  defile,  possibly  improvised 
sonnets  on  the  glory  of  greatness  and  mused  upon 
the  fate  that  so  gilded  a  mortal  life  and  death. 

Seventy-two  days  the  king  lay  dead  in  his  palace. 

Then  his  body,  filled  with  myrrh  and  cassia,  and 
cinnamon,  and  all  sweet  spices  but  frankincense, 
was  swathed  in  gummed  cloth,  the  cunning  of  life 
to  cheat  corruption,  and  was  borne  to  the  tomb 
which  all  his  life  he  had  been  preparing  and  adorn- 
ing. Yet  life  was  not  long  enough  to  make  the  bed 
for  his  dreamless  slumber,  and  usually  the  kings  died 
before  their  tombs  were  ready. 

Such  is  royal  death,  mused  that  Theban,  a  pas- 
sage to  the  delights  of  heaven  from  the  delights  of 
earth — the  exchange  of  the  silver  for  the  golden 
goblet.  It  is  symbolized  by  this  defile,  dazzling  if 


296  N1L.E    NOTES. 

dreary— sunny,  if  stony  and  sandy.  Ah  !  Osiris, 
royal  death  is  the  brief,  brilliant  desert  between  the 
temple  palace  and  the  temple  tomb. 

We  saw  several  of  these  thoughtful  Thebans, 
vapory  shadows,  musing  upon  the  solitary  rocks  as 
we  advanced.  Presently  we  were  embosomed  in 
the  hills.  They  were  only  barren  and  blazing,  not 
at  all  awful  or  imposing,  being  too  low  and  perpen- 
dicular. Besides,  the  rock  of  which  they  are  com- 
posed, is  like  a  petrified  sponge,  and  looks  water- 
worn,  which  it  is  not,  and  unenduring.  To-day 
the  sun  was  especially  genial,  seeming  to  consider 
the  visiting  the  tombs  of  kings  a  very  cheerful 
business.  So  he  shone  ever  more  brilliant  and  burn- 
ingly,  and,  in  the  mazes  of  the  spongy  rock,  caught 
the  Howadji,  and  ogled  them  with  the  glaring  fierce- 
ness of  a  lion's  lust  and  hate. 

"  Ho,  ho  !"  scoffed  the  sun.  "  These  were  kings 
of  men,  and  great  gods,  and  leviathans  in  the  land. 
They  must  lie  apart  from  others  in  the  tomb,  and 
be  sweet  and  separate  for  eternity.  And  up  to  this 
warm,  winding  way,  a  little  after  they  had  come 
hither  dead,  I  saw  Cambyses  and  his  proud  Persians 
rushing,  broad  alive,  and  after  them,  an  endless  host 
of  kings,  travellers,  scholars,  snobs,  cockneys,  and  all 
other  beasts  and  birds  of  prey,  and  Cambyses  to  the 
latest  shopman  broke  into  the  select  society,  shivered 


DEAD    KINGS.  297 

their  porphyry  sarcophagi,  scattered  and  robbed  and 
despoiled,  sending  away  hands,  feet,  heads,  and  all 
cherished  and  sacred  jewels  and  talismans,  and  now 
I  cannot  distinguish  the  dust  of  Araun-neit-gori,  or 
Osirei,  or  Thothmes  from  the  sand  of  the  hills. 

"  Kings !"  scoffed  the  sun.  "  Here's  a  royal  shin- 
oone — the  shin  of  a  real  Theban  king.  You  may 
buy  it  for  a  pound  to-day,  if  it  were  not  sold  for  a 
shilling  yesterday,  and  for  a  farthing  if  you'll  give 
no  more.  The  ring  in  his  slave's  ear,  in  the  plebeian 
tombs,  is  worth  a  hundred  of  it." 

Vainly,  a  thoughtful  Theban,  that  lingered  almost 
invisible  in  the  intense  light  along  the  defile,  sug- 
gested to  the  sun,  that  royalty  was  never  held  of 
the  body — that  monarchs  and  monarchies  were  only 
instruments  and  institutions — that  the  whole  world 
was  a  convention,  and  virtue  a  draft  upon  heaven. 
The  sun  would  gibe  his  gibe. 

"Ho,  ho!  kings'  shins,  going,  going!  kings' 
hands  and  feet,  who  bids  ?  Not  a  para  from  any  of 
the  crowd  who  sell  their  souls  every  day  to  kiss  the 
hands  and  feet  of  some  sort  of  royalty,  the  world 
over.  Ho,  ho,  ho,  kings!" 

What  a  diabolical  sun  !     He  scoffed  so  fervently 
that  the  Howadji  grew  very  silent,  having  previous- 
ly thought  it  rather  a  good  thing  to  show  a  mum- 
my at   home,  that  they  had   found  in  the   kings 
13* 


29S  NILE    NOTES. 

tombs  at  Thebes.  But  with  that  sun  glaring  out 
of  the  sky,  who  could  dare?  So  they  crept  very 
humbly  on,  deftly  defying  him  and  warding  off  sun- 
strokes with  huge,  heavy  umbrellas  of  two  thick- 
nesses of  blue  cotton,  and,  consequently,  constantly 
on  the  point  of  melting  and  dripping  down  the  don- 
keys' sides,  while  the  spectral  sponge-rock  echoed 
the  chirrups  of  the  donkey-boys  mockingly.  "Ah! 
my  young  gentlemen  travel  a  long  way  to  see 
tombs.  But  you  will  have  enough  of  them  one 
day,  young  gentlemen.  What  stands  at  the  end  of 
all  your  journeying?"  The  abashed  Howadji  crept 
still  silently  along,  and  reached,  at  length,  the  end 
of  the  tortuous,  stony  valley,  in  the  heart  of  the 
Libyan  hills. 

Here  was  high 'society.  If  the  field  of  the  cloth 
of  gold  is  famed  because  two  live  kings  met  there, 
what  shall  this  assembly  of  numberless  dead  kings, 
and  kings  only,  be  ?  No  squires  here,  no  henchmen 
or  courtiers.  Nothing  but  the  pure  dust  here.  All 
around  us,  the  low  square  doors,  sculptured  in  the 
hill-bases,  open  into  their  presence-chambers.  Nor 
any  gold  stick  in  waiting,  nor  lord  high  chamberlain 
to  present  us.  What  democracy  so  democratic  as 
the  congregation  of  dead  kings?  Let  us  descend. 
Even  you  and  I,  0  Pacha,  are  as  good  as  many  dead 
kings.  And  is  not  Verde  Giovane.  himself,  ^qual  to 


DEAD    KINGS.  299 

.r,  or  an  unknown  quantity  of  them?  The  runaway 
Mohammed  who  returned  penitent  at  Syene,  shall 
officiate  as  chamberlain  with  the  torch-crate. 

Now  down — but  hold  ! — The  kings  are  not  there. 
They  are  in  the  Vatican,  in  the  Louvre,  in  London, 
at  Berlin,  at  Vienna,  in  choice  museums,  and  scat- 
tered undistinguished  upon  the  rocks.  The  master 
of  the  house  being  out,  of  course  you  will  not  en- 
ter. 

Leave  them  to  museums  and  histories.  What  are 
they  to  us  ?  Their  tombs,  not  themselves,  are  our 
shrines  to-day.  Ramses's  tomb  is  at  this  moment  of 
greater  moment  to  us  than  his  whole  life.  Were 
he  sitting  now  on  IVLemnon's  pedestal,  would  the 
Howadji  sacrifice  seeing  his  tomb  to  seeing  him? 


XXXVIII. 

BURIED, 

THE  Howadji  descended  into  the  tomb.  It  is  the 
trump  tomb  of  the  kings'  valley,  and  is  named  Bel- 
zoni,  from  the  traveller.  The  peasants  observed  the 
ground  sinking  at  this  point  of  the  hill,  and  sug- 
gested as  much  to  Dr.  Riippell.  But  Germania, 
though  sure,  is  slow,  and  while  the  Doctor  whiffed 
meditative  meerschaums  over  it,  Belzoni  opened  it, 
thereby  linking  his  name  with  one  of  the  most 
perfect  of  Theban  remains. 

We  went  perpendicularly  down  a  range  of  shat- 
tered stone  steps,  and,  entering  the  tomb,  advanced 
through  a  passage  still  sloping  downward.  The 
walls  were  covered  with  hieroglyphs  fresh  as  of 
yesterday.  They  are  a  most  graceful  ornament  in 
their  general  impression,  although  the  details  are 
always  graceless,  excepting  the  figures  of  birds, 
which  in  all  Egyptian  sculptures  are  singularly  life- 
like. In  the  wall  and  ceiling  painting  of  these 
tomb-passages  is  the  germ  of  the  arabesques  of  the 


BURIED.  301 

Roman  epoch.  Here  is  clearly  the  dawn  of  the 
exquisite  delicacy  of  the  ceilings  of  the  baths  of 
Titus,  sind  the  later  loveliness  of  the  Loggie.  Look-- 
ing at  these  rude  lines,  but  multitudinous  and  fresh, 
I  saw  the  beginnings  of  what  Raphael  perfected. 

Still  advancing,  the  Howadji  descended  steps  and 
emerged  in  a  hall.  It  is  small,  but  the  walls  are 
all  carefully  painted.  The  gods  are  there,  and  the 
heroes — some  simple  epic  of  heroic  life,  doubtless, 
which  we  do  not  quite  understand,  although  we 
interpret  it  very  fluently.  Other  chambers  and  one 
large  hall  succeed.  In  this  latter  are  figures  of  four 
races  upon  the  central  columns,  supposed  to  indi- 
cate the  four  colored  races  of  the  world.  The  walls 
and  ceilings  are  all  painted  with  figures  of  the  king 
Osirei,  father  of  Ramses,  whose  tomb  it  was,  offer- 
ing gifts  to  the  gods  and  receiving  grace  from 
them. 

These  subterranean  halls  are  very  solemn.  The 
mind  perpetually  reverts  to  their  host,  to  the  em- 
balmed body  that  was  sealed  in  the  sarcophagus  as 
in  a  rock — surrounded  in  night  and  stillness  with 
this  sculptured  society  of  earth  and  heaven.  It  is 
hard  to  realize  that  these  so  finely-finished  halls 
were  to  be  closed  forever.  Nor  were  they  so  ;  for 
the  kings,  after  three  thousand  years,  were  to  come 
ugain  upon  the  earth,  and  their  eyes  should  first  light 


302  NILE    NOTES. 

upon  the  history  and  the  faith  of  their  former  life. 
How  much  of  this  was  pride,  how  much  reverence 
of  royalty,  how  much  veneration  for  the  human  body  ? 

Break  a  sarcophagus  with  Cambyses,  and  ask  the 
tenant — or,  mayhap,  our  thoughtful  Theban  has  also 
meditated  that  theme.  While  you  await  the  an- 
swer, we  pass  into  a  fourth  room,  and  find  that 
death,  too  enamored  of  a  king,  did  not  tarry  for  the 
tomb's  completion ;  for  here  are  unfinished  draw- 
ings— completed  outlines  only  and  no  color. 

The  effect  is  finer  than  that  of  the  finished  pic- 
tures. The  boldness  and  vigor  of  the  lines  are  full 
of  power.  There  are  boats  and  birds,  simple  lines 
only,  which  we  should  admire  to-day  upon  any  can- 
vas. That  old  Egyptian  artist  was  as  sure  of  his 
hand  and  eye,  as  the  French  artist,  who  cut  his 
pupil's  paper  whith  his  thumb  nail,  to  indicate  that 
the  line  should  run  so,  and  not  otherwise.  The 
coloring  is  rude  and  inexpressive.  The  drawing  of 
the  human  figure  conventional,  for  the  church  or  the 
priests  ordained  how  the  human  form  should  be 
drawn.  Later,  the  church  and  priests  ordained  how 
the  human  form  should  be  governed.  Yet,  O  sump- 
tuous scarlet  queen,  sitting  on  seven  hills,  you  were 
generous  to  art,  while  you  were  wronging  nature. 

There  was  going  down  dangerous  steps  after- 
v»ard,  and  explorations  of  chambers  dim,  whose 


B  U  K  I  E  D.  303 

farther  end  had  fallen  in  and  shut  out  investigation. 
The  same  song  was  everywhere  sung  in  different 
keys.  Three  hundred  and  twenty  feet  we  advanced 
into  the  earth,  and  one  hundred  and  twenty  down- 
ward. In  that  space  all  the  gods  were  gathered, 
could  we  have  known  them,  and  wondrous  histories 
told,  could  we  have  heard  them.  Fresh  and  fair 
the  walls,  but  the  passages  and  steps  were  broken, 
and  the  darkness  was  intolerably  warm  and  stifling. 
Students  of  hieroglyphs,  artists,  the  versed  in  Egyp- 
tian mythology,  jackals  and  mummy-merchants  had 
longer  tarried  and  increased  their  stores.  But  the 
Howadji  did  what  the  owner  and  builder  of  the 
tomb  could  not  do.  They  crept  out  of  it,  and  sat 
down  upon  the  shattered  steps  of  the  entrance,  to 
smoke  peaceful  chibouques. 

At  the  door  of  this  tomb,  as  of  all  others,  were 
mummy-merchants,  who  gathered  round  us  and  out- 
spread their  wares.  Images,  necklaces,  rings,  arms, 
heads,  feet,  hands,  bits  of  the  mummy-case,  and  lit- 
tle jars  of  seed,  charms,  lamps,  all  the  rich  robbery 
of  the  tombs,  placidly  awaited  inspection.  The 
mummy-merchants  are  the  population  of  the  Theban 
ruins.  Grave  ghouls,  they  live  upon  dead  bodies. 
They  come  out  spectrally  from  columns  and  walls, 
as  if  they  were  the  paintings  just  peeled  off,  and  sit 
at  tomb  doors  like  suspicious  spirits,  and  accost 


304  NILE    NOTES. 

you  unintelligibly  as  you  go  gaping  from  wonder  to 
wonder.  But  are  grave  always,  the  ghouls,  and  no 
shrieking  pertinacious  pedlers. 

We  descended  a  few  doors  off,  into  the  Harpers' 
tomb :  not  that  a  harper  is  there  buried,  but  thei'3 
are  two  Homeric  figures  drawn  upon  the  walls  of  a 
small  room,  singing  hymns  to  the  harp,  and  they 
give  their  name  to  the  tomb.  It  belongs  by  right 
to  Ramses  III.  But  if  that  sneering  sun  could 
steal  in,  he  would  tell  the  Howadji  that  the  harpers 
are  more  interesting,  and  that  time  estimates  kings 
at  their  value. 

This  tomb  is  a  contemporary  daguerreotype  of  old 
Egyptian  life — the  life  of  the  field,  of  the  river,  of 
the  house,  of  art,  of  religion.  Fruits  are  here, 
birds,  baskets,  vases,  couches,  pottery,  skins.  It  is 
a  more  vivid  and  accurate  chronicle  than  Herodo- 
tus. These  figures  are  drawn  in  small  separate 
chambers,  and  each  kind  by  itself,  as  if  to  symbolize 
the  universality  of  the  kings'  kingdom  and  the 
arts  in  it.  They  do  not  seem  pictures  of  separate 
scenes,  as  in  the  private  tombs,  but,  as  is  proper  in 
royal  tombs,  of  the  general  forms  and  instruments  of 
Egyptian  life.  Yet  what  is  the  knowledge  that  our 
princess  Re-ni-no-fre  sat  upon  a  chair  like  ours,  if 
we  know  that  she  was  beautiful  and  young? 

For  the   name's    sake  we  entered  the  tomb  of 


BURIED.  305 

Memnon,  a  title  of  Ramses  V.,  and  because  it  was 
the  favorite  of  the  Greeks.  It  was  easy  and  pleas- 
ant to  see  why  they  preferred  it,  because  of  the 
symmetry  of  the  arrangement  and  the  extreme  deli- 
cacy, finish,  and  fineness  of  the  paintings.  In  the 
farther  chamber  is  a  huge  sarcophagus  of  Egyptian 
porphyry,  broken  by  some  invader,  and  over  it  and 
on  all  the  ceilings  are  astronomical  enigmas  of  fine 
color. 

From  all  these  royal  tombs  the  occupants  are 
long  since  departed.  Not  to  heaven  and  hell,  but  to 
choice  cabinets  of  curiosity,  and  to  the  winds,  whith- 
er Cambyses  and  the  other  invaders  incontinently 
sent  them.  The  significance  of  their  much  painting 
is  mostly  a  secret.  The  sacred  symbols  are  too 
rn/stic  for  us  moderns.  That  serpent  with  two 
men's  heads  at  his  tail  looking  backward — three 
snake  heads  in  their  proper  places  looking  forward — 
two  pairs  of  human  legs  walking  different  ways, 
and  inexplicable  sprouts  upon  his  back,  is  more 
puzzling  than  the  interor  of  Africa  or  the  name  of 
Charon's  boat.  Fancy,  of  course,  figures  magnifi- 
cent meanings  for  the  unintelligible,  and  the  fair 
daughters  of  beamy  John  Bull,  did  they  not-explain 
at  length  those  mysteries  over  the  pleasant  dinners 
at  Shepherd's  ?  Yet  truth  is  a  simple  figure,  though 
fond  of  dress. 


306  NILE    NOTES. 

In  all  the  tombs  was  one  god,  a  foxy-headed  di- 
vinity, who  greatly  charmed  us.  He  was  in  all 
societies,  in  all  situations.  Generally  he  was  tap- 
ping a  surprised  figure  upon  the  shoulder,  and  prick- 
ing the  fox  ears  forward,  saying,  like  an  impertinent 
conscience,  "  Attend,  if  you  please."  Then  he  sits 
in  the  very  council  of  heaven  and  hobnobs  with 
Amun  Re,  and  again  farther  on,  taps  another  victim. 
Such  sleepless  pertness  was  never  divine  before. 
Yet  he  is  always  good-humored,  always  ready  for 
pot-luck.  Gods,  kings,  or  Howadji,  all  is  fish  to 
the  foxy.  He  seemed  the  only  live  thing  in  the 
tombs.  Much  more  alive  than  sundry  be-goggled 
and  be-veiled  male  and  female  Howadji  who  explor- 
ed with  us  these  realms  of  royal  death.  We  asked  the 
foxy  to  join  us  in  a  sandwich  and  chibouque  in  the 
entrance  of  Memnon's  tomb.  But  he  was  too  busy 
with  an  individual  who  seemed  not  to  heed  him — 
and  remained  tapping  him  upon  the  walls. 

In  the  late  afternoon  we  crossed  the  mountains 
into  the  valley  of  priests'  tombs  The  landscape 
was  lovely  beyond  words,  and  at  sunset,  from  the 
crumbling  Sphinxes  of  El  Kurneh,  we  turned 
toward  Memnon  as  the  faithful  turn  to  Mecca. 
The  Howadji  fleet,  mostly  English,  lay  at  the  op- 
posite Luxor  shore,  gay  with  flags  and  streamers, 
and  boats  with  mingled  Frank  and  Muslim  freight 


BURIED.  307 

glided  across  the  gleaming  river.  The  huge  pylon 
of  Karnak  towered,  like  the  side  of  a  pyramid,  over 
the  palms  ;  and  in  a  clumsy  tub  of  a  boat,  and  row- 
ed by  a  brace  of  the  common  right  angular  oars, 
trimmed  boughs  of  trees,  we  were  forced  through 
the  rosy  calm  to  our  dismantled  Ibis. 


XXXIX. 

DEAD   QUEENS, 

FOR  even  Re-ni-no-fre  must  die  and  be  buried 
suitably.  Love  and  beauty  were  no  more  talismans 
then,  than  now.  Death  looked  on  queens  with  the 
evil  eye.  What  bowels  of  beauty  and  royalty  have 
not  the  Libyan  hills !  What  Sultan  so  splendid 
that  he  has  a  hareem  so  precious ! 

The  ladies  lie  lonely  and  apart  from  their  lords. 
The  kings  are  at  one  end  of  the  old  Libyan  suburb 
— the  queens  at  the  other.  We  approached  the 
queens'  tomb  through  an  ascending  sand  and  stone 
defile.  But,  as  becomes,  it  is  not  entirely  seques- 
tered from  the  green  of  the  valley,  and  the  door  of 
a  queen's  tomb  framed  as  fair  an  Egyptian  picture 
as  I  saw.  These  tombs  are  smaller  and  less  import- 
ant than  those  of  the  kings.  The  kings  who,  as 
at  Dahr-el-Baree,  inserted  their  cartouches  or 
escutcheons  over  those  of  their  predecessors,  and  so 


DEAD    QUEENS.  309 

strove  to  cheat  posterity,  could  not  suffer  their 
wives  to  be  buried  as  nobly  as  themselves. 

Yet  after  the  elaboration  and  mystic  figuring,  and 
toiling  thought,  and  depth,  and  darkness,  and  weari- 
ness of  the  kings'  tombs,  the  smallness  and  open- 
ness of  the  queens'  is  refreshing.  They  are  mere 
caves  in  the  rock,  usually  of  three  or  four  cham- 
bers. The  sculptures  and  paintings  are  gracious 
and  simple.  They  are  not  graceful,  but  suggest 
the  grace  and  repose  which  the  ideal  of  female  life 
requires. 

Simple  landscapes,  gardens,  fruit,  and  flowers, 
are  the  subjects  of  the  paintings.  No  bewildering 
grandeurs  of  human-headed  and  footed  serpents — 
of  gods  inconceivable,  bearing  inexplicable  symbols, 
all  which,  and  the  tangled  mesh  of  other  theologi- 
cal emblems,  is  merely  human.  But  the  largeness 
and  simplicity  of  natural  forms,  as  true  and  touch- 
ing to  us,  as  to  those  who  painted  them. 

This  simplicity,  which  was  intended,  doubtless, 
in  the  royal  mind,  to  symbolize  the  lesser  glory  of 
the  spouse,  is  now  the  surpassing  beauty  of  the 
tombs.  In  the  graceful  largeness  and  simplicity  of 
the  character  of  the  decorations,  it  seems  as  if  the 
secret  of  reverence  for  womanly  character  and  in- 
fluence, which  was  to  be  later  revealed,  was  in- 
stinctively suggested  by  those  who  knew  them  not. 


310  NILE    NOTES. 

Eve  was  truly  created  long  arid  long  after  Adam, 
and  at  rural  Worcester,  they  doubt  if  she  be  quite 
completed  yet.  Those  wise  Egyptian  priests  knew 
many  things,  but  knew  not  the  best.  And  the  pro- 
found difference  of  modern  civilization  from  ancient, 
as  of  the  western  from  the  eastern,  what  is  it  but  the 
advent  of  Eve  ?  In  Cairo  and  Damascus,  to-day, 
Adam  sits  alone  with  his  chibouque  and  fingan  of 
mocha  ;  but  his  wives,  like  the  dogs  and  horses  of 
the  Western,  are  excluded  from  the  seats  of  equality 
and  honor. 

The  cheerful  yellow  hues  of  the  walls,  and  their 
exposure  to  the  day,  the  warm  silence  of  the  hill 
seclusion,  and  the  rich,  luminous  landscape  in  the 
vista  of  the  steep  valley,  made  these  tombs  pleas- 
ant pavilions  of  memory.  We  wandered  through 
them  refreshed,  as  in  gardens.  They  are  all  the 
same,  and  you  will  not  explore  many.  But  the 
mind  digests  them  easily  and  at  once — while 
those  kings'  tombs  may  yet  give  thought  a  dys- 
pepsia. 

While  the  Howadji  loitered,  ecco  mi  qua,  stood  our 
foxy  friend  upon  the  bright  walls.  "  Well  said,  old 
mole!  canst  work  i'  the  earth  so  fast?"  "Yes," 
said  he,  "I  thought  I'd  step  over;  their  majesties 
might  be  lonely." 

Foxy,  Foxy  !   I  elect  thee  to  my  Penates.     To 


DEAD    QUEENS.  311 

thee  shall  an  altar  be  builded,  and  an  arm-chair 
erected  thereupon.  Thereof  shall  punch-bowls  be 
the  vessels,  and  fragrant  latakia  the  incense.  A 
model  god  is  foxy,  alive,  active,  busy — looking  in 
at  the  hareem,  too,  lest  they  be  lonely ! 


XL. 

ET  CETERA, 

/  THE  mere  Theben  subjects  died,  too,  and  they 
also  had  to  be  buried.  Their  tombs  are  in  the 
broad  face  of  the  mountains  toward  the  river,  and 
between  those  of  the  kings  and  queens.  They 
command  a  fairer  earthly  prospect  than  those  of 
their  royal  masters,  and,  Osiris  favoring,  their  occu- 
pants reached  the  heavenly  meads  as  soon. 

The  great  hillside  is  honey-combed  with  these 
tombs.  There  is  no  wonder  so  wonderful  that  it 
shall  not  be  realized,  and  the  Prophet's  coffin  shall 
be  miraculous  no  longer ;  for  here  the  dwellings  of 
the  dead  overhang  the  temples  and  the  houses. 
The  romantic  Theban  could  not  look  at  the  sunset, 
but  he  must  needs  see  tombs  and  find  the  sunset  too 
seriously  symbolical.  Clearly  with  the  Thebans, 
death  was  the  great  end  of  life. 

The  patient  little  donkeys  would  have  tugged  us 
up  the  steep  sand  and  rock-slope,  from  the  plain  of 
Thebes.  But  we  toiled  up  on  foot  through  a  vit- 


ET    CETERA.  313 

lage  of  dust,  and  barking  dogs,  and  filthy  people, 
inconceivable,  and  on  and  higher,  through  mummy- 
svvathings,  cast  off  from  rifled  mummies  and  bleach- 
ing bones.  If  a  civilized  being  lived  in  modern 
Thebes,  he  would  certainly  inhabit  a  tomb  for  its 
greater  cleanliness  and  comfort,  and  would  find  it, 
too,  freshly  frescoed. 

In  the  kings'  tombs,  we  encountered  the  un re- 
solvable theological  enigmas,  with  the  stately  socie- 
ty of  gods  and  heroes.  The  queens  welcomed  us 
in  gardens  and  in  barges  of  pleasure,  while  timbrels 
and  harps  rang,  and  the  slaves  danced  along  the 
walls,  offering  fruit  and  flowers — or  would  have 
done  so,  had  they  not  rejoined  their  spouses  in 
choice  cabinets. 

But  the  plebeians  receive  us  in  the  midst  of  their 
fields  and  families.  The  hints  of  the  Harper's 
tomb  are  minutely  developed  in  many  of  the  pri 
vate  tombs.  Every  trade,  and  the  detail  of  every 
process  of  household  economy — of  the  chase,  and 
all  other  departments  of  Theban  life,  are  there  pic- 
tured. Much  is  gone.  The  plaster-casing  of  the 
rock  peels  away.  Many  are  caves  only.  But  in 
some,  the  whole  circle  of  human  labor  seems  to  be 
pictorially  completed. 

The    social   scenes   are  most  interesting.     Very 

graceful  is  a  line  of  guests  smelling  the  lotus  offered 
14 


314  NILE    NOTES. 

as  a  welcome;  but  times  change  and  manners. 
Pleasant  and  graceful  would  it  yet  be  to  welcome 
friends  with  flowers.  But  all  do  not  dwell  upon 
rivers,  neither  are  the  shores  of  all  rivers  lithe  with 
lilies.  Haply  for  modern  welcome,  a  cigar  and 
glass  of  sherry  suffice. 

I  say  graceful,  meaning  the  idea  ;  for  upon  the 
walls  you  would  see  a  very  stiff  row  of  stiff*  figures 
smelling  at  stiff  flowers.  With  your  merely  mod- 
ern notions,  you  would  probably  mistake  the  lotus 
for  a  goblet.  Were  you  an  artist,  you  would  cher- 
ish the  idea  until  you  carved  in  a  cup  that  graceful 
flower-form.  Figures  of  musicians,  whose  harps, 
and  guitars,  and  tambourines,  would  seem  to  you 
the  germs  of  the  tar  and  the  rabab,  would  awaken 
vague  visions  of  Hecate  and  the  old  husband.  But 
if  you  beheld  the  dancers,  infallibly  you  would 
slide  down  three  thousand  years  in  a  moment,  and, 
musily  gazing  from  the  door  into  the  soft  morning, 
your  eyes  would  yearn  toward  Esne,  and  even  youi 
more-severely  regulated  heart,  memory,  mind,  or 
what  you  will,  toward  the  gay  Ghazeeyah  and  the 
modest  dove. 

These  tombs,  like  the  rest,  are  tenantless.  At 
intervals  come  the  scientific  and  open  new  ones. 
The  mummy-merchants  and  Hovvadji  fo"ow  and 
seize  the  spoils.  Time  succeeds  and  prey*  t hough 


ET    CETERA.  315 

tenderly,  upon  the  labor  of  an  antiquity  that  has 
eluded  him  ;  for  he  was  busy  in  the  plain  below 
smoothing  the  green  grave  of  Thebes.  For  the 
tomb  of  Thebes  itself  is  the  freshest  and  fairest  of 
all.  The  stars  come  and  go  in  the  ceiling.  The 
wheat  waves  and  is  harvested — flowers  spring  and 
fade  upon  the  floor.  The  same  processes  of  life  are 
not  repeated,  but  they  are  real  there.  Its  tenant, 
too,  has  disappeared  like  the  rest — but  into  no 
known  cabinet. 

We  emerged  from  the  tombs,  and  clomb  down 
the  hill.  A  house  of  unusual  pretension,  with  a 
swept  little  court  in  front,  attracted  our  notice.  0 
traveller !  heed  not  the  clean  little  court ;  for  the 
figure  that  sits  therein,  amply  arrayed,  sedately 
smoking  as  if  life  were  the  very  vanity  of  vanities, 
is  the  monarch  of  mummy-merchants,  who  exacts 
terrible  tribute  from  the  Howadji.  A  Greek  ghoul 
is  he,  who  lives  by  the  living  no  less  than  the  dead. 

Fix  your  eye  upon  Memnon,  and  follow  to  the 
plain.  Amble  quietly  in  his  sunset-shadow  to  the 
shore.  The  air  will  sway  with  ghosts  you  cannot 
lay.  Dead  Thebans  from  the  mountains  will  glide 
shadowy  over  dead  Thebes  in  the  plain.  Chapless, 
fallen,  forgotten  now,  we  too,  were  young  immor- 
tals— we,  too,  were  born  in  Arcady ! 


XLI. 

THE  MEMNONIUM, 

^ 

THERE  is  a  satisfaction  in  the  entire  desolation 

of  Thebes.     It  is  not  a  ruin,  but  a  disappearance. 

/ 

The  Libyan  suburb,  which  seems  to  have  been  all 
tombs  and  temples,  is  now  only  a  broad  and  deep 
green  plain,  ending  suddenly  in  the  desert,  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountains.  Thereon  Memnon  and  his 
mate,  the  Memnonium  and  Medeenet  Haboo,  are 
alone  conspicuous.  Exploration  reveals  a  few  other 
temples  and  some  mighty  statues,  which,  as  they 
lie  broken  at  Titan  length — their  sharp  outlines 
lost  by  the  constant  attrition  of  the  sand — seem  to 
be  returning  into  rock. 

This  plain,  making  a  green  point  in  the  river,  is 
by  far  the  most  striking  situation  for  a  city.  Yet 
we  see  it,  deducting  the  few  ruins,  as  men  lost  in 

|    the  past  saw  it.     Nor  shall  the  American — whose 
history   is    but    born — stand    upon    this    plain    of 

»  Thebes  which  has  outlived  its  history,  without  a 
new  respect  for  our  mother  earth  who  can  so  deftly 


THE    MEMNONIUM.  317 

destroy,  sand-grain  by  sand-grain,  the  most  stupen- 
dous human  works. 

Step  westward  and  behold  a  prairie.  Consider 
the  beginnings  of  a  world  metropolis  there — its 
culmination  in  monuments  of  art — its  lingering  de- 
cay and  desolation,  until  its  billowy,  tumultuous 
life  is  again  smoothed  into  a  flowery  prairie.  With 
what  yearning  wonder  would  the  modern,  who  saw 
it,  turn  to  us,  lost  in  antiquity.  Then  step  east- 
ward and  behold  Thebes. 

The  Memnonium  is  not  the  remains  of  the  temple 
before  which  Memnon  sat.  It  was  a  temple-palace 
of  Ramses  the  Great.  It  is  a  group  of  columns 
now  with  fallen  and  falling  pylons,  a  few  hundred 
rods  from  Memnon.  You  will  find  it  one  of  the 
pleasantest  ruins  ;  for  the  rude,  historical  sculptures 
are  well-nigh  erased.  There  are  no  dark  chambers, 
no  intricacy  of  elaborate  construction  to  considei, 
and  the  lotus-capitaled  columns  are  the  most  grace- 
ful I  saw. 

We  must  be  tolerant  of  these  Egyptian  historical 
sculptures  upon  pylons  and  temple  walls  for  the 
sake  of  history  and  science.  But  the  devotee  of 
art  and  beauty  will  confess  a  secret  comfort  in  the 
Memnonium,  where  the  details  are  fast  crumbling, 
and  the  grandeur  of  the  architecture  stands  unen- 
cumbered. Here  is  an  architecture  perfect  in  its 


318  NILE    NOTES. 

grand  style  in  any  age.  Yet,  on  the  truly  rounded 
columns,  palm-like  below,  and  opening  in  a  lotus 
cup  to  bear  the  architrave,  are  sculptures  of  a  ludi- 
crous infancy  of  art.  It  is  hard  to  feel  that  both 
were  done  by  the  same  people.  Had  they  then  no 
feeling  of  symmetry  and  propriety?  It  is  as  if  the 
Chinese  had  sculptured  the  walls  of  St.  Peter's  or 
the  Vatican. 

In  the  midst  of  the  Memnonium,  lies  the  shatter- 
ed Colossus  of  Ramses — a  mass  of  granite  equal  to 
that  of  Memnon.  How  it  was  overthrown  and 
how  broken  will  never  be  known.  It  is  comforta- 
ble to  be  certain  of  one  thing  in  the  bewildering 
wilderness  of  ruin  and  conjecture,  even  if  it  be  only 
ignorance.  Cambyses,  the  unlucky  Persian,  is  here 
the  scapegoat,  as  he  is  of  Memnon's  misfortune  and 
of  Theban  ruin  in  general.  "  Cambyses,  or  an 
earthquake,"  insists  untiring  antiquarian  specula- 
tion, clearly  wishing  it  may  be  Cambyses.  An 
earthquake,  then,  and  oh  !  pax  ! 

This  Colossus  sat  at  the  temple  gate.  His  hands 
lay  upon  his  knees,  and  his  eyes  looked  eastward. 
And  even  the  tumbled  mass  is  yet  serene  and  digni- 
fied. Is  art  so  near  to  nature  that  the  statue  of 
greatness  can  no  more  lose  its  character  than  great- 
ness itself? 

Behind  the  statue  was  a  court  surrounded  with 


THri    MEMNONIUM.  319 

Osiride  columns,  and  a  few  shattered  ones  remain. 
I  fancy  the  repose  of  that  court  in  a  Theban  sunset, 
the  windless  stillness  of  the  air,  and  cloudlessness 
of  the  sky.  The  king  enters,  thoughtfully  pacing 
by  the  calm-browed  statue,  that  seems  the  sentinel 
of  heaven.  In  the  presence  of  the  majestic  col- 
umns humanly  carved,  their  hands  sedately  folded 
upon  their  breasts — his  weary  soul  is  bathed  with 
peace,  as  a  weary  body  with  living  water. 

Ramses'  battles  and  victories  are  sculptured  upon 
the  walls — his  offerings  to  the  gods,  and  their  recep- 
tion of  him.  There  is  an  amusing  discrepancy  be- 
tween the  decay  and  disappearance  of  these,  and  the 
descriptions  in  Sir  Gardner.  Spirited  word-paint- 
ings of  battle-scenes,  and  scenes  celestial,  or  even 
animated  descriptions  of  them,  are  ludicrously  criti- 
cized by  their  subjects.  That,  too,  is  pleasant  to  the 
Howadji,  who  discovers  very  rapidly  what  his  work 
in  the  Memnonium  is ;  and  stretched  in  the  shadow 
of  the  most  graceful  column,  while  Nero  silently 
pencils  its  flower-formed  capital  in  her  sketch-book, 
he  looks  down  the  vistas  and  beyond  them,  to  Mem- 
non,  who,  for  three  thousand  years  and  more,  has  sat 
almost  near  enough  to  throw  his  shadow  upon  this 
temple,  yet  has  never  turned  to  see  it. 

There  sat  the  Howadji  many  still  hours,  looking 
now  southward  to  Memnon,  now  eastward  to  gray 


320  NILE    NOTES. 

Karnak,  over  the  distant  palms.  Perchance,  in  that 
corridor  of  columns,  Memnon  and  the  setting  sun 
their  teachers,  the  moments  were  no  more  lost  than 
by  young  Greek  immortals  in  the  porch  of  the 
philosophers.  Yet  here  can  be  slight  record  of 
those  hours.  The  flowers  of  sunset-dreams  are  too 
frail  for  the  herbarium. 

There  dozed  the  donkeys,  too,  dreaming  of  pas- 
tures incredible,  whither  hectoring  Howadji  come 
no  more.  Donkeys  !  are  there  no  wise  asses  among 
you,  to  bid  you  beware  of  dreaming?  For  we 
come  down  upon  your  backs,  like  stern  realities 
upon  young  poets,  and  urge  you  across  the  plain 
to  Medeenet  Haboo. 

Ah  !  had  you  and  the  young  poets  but  heeded 
the  wise  asses ! 


XLII 

MEDEENET   HABOO, 

WONDERFUL  are  the  sculptures  of  Medeenet 
Haboo — a  palace  temple  of  Ramses  III.  The)7  are 
cut  three  or  four  inches  deep  into  the  solid  stone, 
and  gazing  at  them,  and  in  a  little  square  tower 
called  the  pavilion,  trying  to  find  on  the  walls  what 
Sir  Gardner  and  the  poet  Harriet  say  is  there,  you 
stumble  on,  over  sand-heaps  and  ruin,  and  enter  at 
length  the  great  court. 

The  grave  grandeur  of  this  court  is  unsurpassed 
in  architecture — open  to  the  sky  above,  a  double 
range  of  massive  columns  supported  the  massive 
pediment.  The  columns  upon  the  court  were 
Osiride — huge,  square  masses  with  the  figures  with 
the  folded  hands  carved  in  bold  relief  upon  their 
faces,  and  carved  all  over  with  hieroglyphs.  The 
rear  row  was  of  circular  columns,  with  papyrus 
or  lotus  capitals.  The  walls,  dim  seen  behind  the 
double  colonnade,  are  all  carved  with  history,  and 
the  figures  upon  them,  with  those  of  the  archi- 
traves, variously  colored. 
14* 


322  NILE    NOTES. 

It  is  solemn  and  sublime.  The  mosaic,  finical  ef- 
fect of  so  much  carving  and  coloring  is  neutralized 
by  the  grandeur  and  mass  of  the  columns.  In  its 
prime,  when  the  tints  were  fresh,  although  the 
edges  of  the  sculptures  could  never  have  been 
sharper  than  now,  the  priests  of  Medeehet  Haboo 
were  lodged  as  are  no  modern  monarchs. 

Time  and  Cambyses  have  been  here,  too,  and 
alas !  the  Christians,  the  Coptic  Christians,  who 
have  defiled  many  of  the  noblest  Egyptian  remains, 
plastering  their  paintings,  building  miserable  mud 
cabins  of  churches  in  their  courts,  with  no  more 
feeling  and  veneration  than  the  popes  who  sur- 
mount obelisks  with  the  cross.  I  grant  the  ruined 
temples  offered  material  too  valuable  to  be  left 
through  regard  to  modern  sentiment,  and  curiosity 
of  Egyptian  history  and  art.  It  is  true,  also,  that 
the  Christian  plastering  did  preserve  many  of  the 
pagan  paintings.  But  you  will  grant  that  man,  and 
especially  the  Howadji  species,  has  a  right  to  rail 
at  all  defiling  and  defilers  of  beauty  and  grandeur. 
Has  not  the  name  Goth  passed  into  a  proverb  ?  Yet 
were  the  Goths  a  vigorous,  manly  race,  with  a 
whole  modern  world  in  their  loins,  who  came  and 
crushed  an  effete  people. 

But  enough  for  the  Copts. 

They  erected  a  church  in  the  great  court  of  Me- 


MEDEENET    HABOO.  323 

deenet  Haboo,  piercing  the  architrave  all  round  for 
their  rafters,  instead  of  roofing  the  court  itself. 
Nor  let  the  faithful  complain  of  the  presence  of  pa- 
gan symbols.  For  the  Copts  and  early  Egyptian 
Christians  had  often  the  pagan  images  and  pictures 
over  their  altars.  Nay,  does  not  Catholic  Christen- 
dom kiss  to-day  the  great  toe  of  Jupiter  Olympans, 
with  religious  refreshment? 

Now  the  Coptic  columns  of  red  sandstone  encum- 
ber this  noble  court  and  lie  levelled,  poor  pigmies, 
amid  the  Titanic  magnificence  of  the  standing  or 
fallen  original  columns.  The  Christian  columns  are 
about  the  size  and  appearance  of  those  in  the  San 
Spirito,  at  Florence.  Benign  Brunellesco,  forgive, 
but  the  architecture  of  modern  Europe  is  sternly 
criticized  by  this  antique  African  court. 

The  Howadji  sat  upon  a  fragment  of  ruin,  and 
the  gray  beard  guide,  who  happily  could  not  speak 
ten  words  of  English,  lighted  their  chibouques. 
Then  he  withdrew  himself  behind  a  prostrate  col- 
umn, seeing  that  they  wished  to  be  still,  and  lay 
there  motionless,  like  time  sleeping  at  his  task. 
The  donkey-boys  spoke  only  in  low  whispers,  curi- 
ously watching  the  Howadji,  and  the  dozy  donkeys 
with  closing  eyes,  shook  their  significant  ears,  and 
shifted  slowly  from  sun  to  shade.  The  musing, 
dreamy  chibouque  is,  after  all,  the  choicest  com- 


324  NILE    NOTES. 

panion  for  these  ruins.  Chibouques  and  dozy  don- 
keys, a  sleeping  old  man,  and  low  whispering  boys, 
scare  not  the  spirits  that  haunt  these  courts.  Time, 
too,  you  will  muse,  smokes  his  chibouque  as  he  lies 
at  leisure  length  along  the  world.  Puff,  puff — he 
whiffs  away  creeds,  races,  histories,  and  the  fairest 
fames  flee  like  vapors  from  his  pipe.  India,  Egypt, 
Greece,  wreathing  azurely  away  in  the  sunshine. 
Smoke,  smoke,  all. 

Pace  with  Sir  Gardner  along  the  walls,  if  you 
will,  and  behold  the  triumphal  processions,  deifica- 
tions, battles,  and  glories,  terrestrial  and  celestial, 
of  the  third  Ramses.  They  are  curious  and  worth 
your  while.  It  is  well  to  see  and  know  men's  vari- 
ous ways  in  various  ages,  of  slaughtering  each  other, 
and  glorifying  themselves. 

But  in  all  this  detail  love  it  not  too  much.  In 
these  temple  remains,  in  the  nectar  of  Egyptian 
wisdom,  as  Plato  and  the  old  wise  pour  it  to  us  in 
their  vases  of  wondrous  work,  have  we  our  heritage 
of  that  race.  Spare  us  the  inventory  of  their  ward- 
robes and  the  bulletins  of  their  battles.  In  history 
it  is  not  men's  features,  but  the  grand  effect  and 
impression  of  the  men  that  we  want.  Not  how 
they  did  it,  but  what  they  did.  Ramses  marched 
to  Babylon.  Cambyses  came  to  Thebes.  Quits  for 
them.  Cambyses  upset  Memnon.  That  is  the 


MEDEENET    HABOO.  '325 

great  thing,  and  if  thereupon,  near-sighted  wonder 
will  see  stars  in  a  millstone,  we  will  be  thankful  for 
astronomy's  sake,  and  awaken  old  time  there  to  re- 
fill the  chibouques. 

For  in  this  magnificent  seclusion  must  we  linger 
and  linger.  The  setting  sun  warns  us  away,  but  in 
leaving,  this  evening,  we  leave  the  Libyan  suburb 
forever,  nor  even  the  morrow  with  Karnak  can  para- 
lyze the  pang  of  parting. 

It  is  only  here,  too — here  in  the  warm  dead  heart 
of  Egypt,  that  the  traveller  can  see  ruins  as  time 
has  made  and  is  making  them.  Thebes  is  not  yet  ' 
put  in  order  for  visitors.  The  rubbish  of  the  ruin- 
ed huts  of  the  Christian  settlement,  within  and 
about  this  pile,  yet  remains.  The  desert  has  drifted 
around  it.  so  that  many  noble  columns  are  buried 
in  dust  to  their  capitals.  The  chambers  of  the 
temple  are  entirely  earthed.  We  climb  a  sand-hill 
from  the  court  to  the  roof  of  the  temple.  Far 
down  in  fissures  of  rubbish,  are  bits  of  sculptured 
wall,  and,  upon  the  same  dust-mountain,  we  descend 
to  view  the  historical  sculptures  of  the  outer  wall. 

This  deepens  the  reality  and  solemnity  of  the  im- 
pression. Were  it  all  excavated,  and  the  whole 
temple  cleared  and  revealed,  it  were  a  glorious  gain 
for  art  and  science.  But  to  the  mere  traveller — if 
one  may  be  a  mere  traveller-— the  dust-buried  sham- 


326  NILE    NOTES. 

bers  solemnize  the  court.  If  the  head  and  unutter- 
able neck  of  Isis  are  revealed,  wonder  for  the  rest 
is  more  worshipful  than  sight. 

Besides,  excavation  implies  cicerones  and  swarms 
of  romantic  travellers  in  the  way  of  each  other's 
romance.  You  will  remember,  Xtopher,  how  fatal 
to  sentiment  was  a  simple  English  "  good  evening," 
in  the  moonlighted  Roman  forum.  Imagination 
craved  only  salutations  after  the  high  Roman  fash- 
ion, and  when  Lydia  Languish  did  not  find  the  Coli- 
seum so  "funny"  as  Naples,  you  regretted  the  facili- 
ties of  steam,  and  yearned  to  pace  that  pavement 
alone  .with  the  ghosts  of  Caesar  and  Marc  Antony. 
Haste  to  Egypt,  Xtopher,  and  that  Roman  wish 
shall  be  fulfilled ;  for  you  shall  walk  erect  and  alone 
with  Persian  Cambyses,  or  mild-eyed  Herodotus,  or 
inscrutable  Ramses — for  "  there  is  every  man  his 
own  fool,  and  the  world's  sign  is  taken  down." 

Excavation  implies  arrangement,  and  the  sense  of 
time's  work  upon  a  temple  or  a  statue,  or  even  a  hu- 
man face,  is  lost  or  sadly  blunted,  when  all  the  chips 
are  swept  away,  and  his  dusty,  rubbishy  work-shop 
is  smoothed  into  a  saloon  of  sentiment.  Who  ever 
entered,  for  the  first  time,  the  Coliseum,  without  a 
fall  to  zero  in  the  mercury  of  enthusiasm,  at  the 
sight  of  the  well-sanded  area,  the  cross,  shrines,  and 
sentinels?  When  it  is  not  enough  that  science  and 


MEDEEXET    HABOO.  327 

romance  carry  away  specimens  of  famous  places 
to  theh  museums,  but  Mammon  undertakes  the 
making  of  the  famous  place  itself  into  a  choice 
cabinet,  they  may  be  esteemed  happy  who  flourish- 
ed prior  to  that  period. 

And  it  is  pleasant  to  see  remains  so  surpassingly, 
remarkable,  without  having  them  shown  by  aseedy-j 
coated,  bad-hatted,  fellow-creature,  at  five  francs 
a  day.  You  climb  alone  to  Aboo  Simbel  in  that  se- 
rene southern  silence,  and  half  fear  to  enter  the 
awful  presence  of  the  Osiride  columns,  or  to  pene- 
trate into  the  adyta,  mysterious  to  you  as  to  those 
of  old,  and  you  donkey  quietly,  with  a  taciturn 
old  time,  over  the  plain  of  green  young  grain, 
where  Thebes  was,  and  feel  as  freshly  as  the  first 
who  saw  it. 

But  these  things  will  come.  Egypt  must  soon 
be  the  favorite  ground  of  the  modern  Nimrod,  tra- 
vel—  who  so  tirelessly  hunts  antiquity.  After 
Egypt,  other  lands  and  ruins  are  young,  and  scant, 
and  tame,  save  the  Parthenon  and  Pestum.  Every 
thing  invites  the  world  hither. 

It  will  come,  and  Thebes  will  be  cleaned  up  and 
fenced  in.  Steamers  will  leave  for  the  cataract, 
where  donkeys  will  be  in  readiness  to  convey  par- 
ties to  Philae,  at  seven  A.  M.  precisely,  touching 
at  Esne  and  Edfoo.  Upon  the  Libyan  suburb  will 


328  NILE    NOTES. 

arise  the  Hotel  royal  au  Ramses  le  grand  for  the  se- 
lectest  fashion.  There  will  be  the  Hotel  de  Mem- 
non  for  the  romantic,  the  Hjfel  aux  Tombcaux  for  the 
reverend  clergy,  and  the  Pension  Re-ni-no-fre  upon 
the  water-side  for  the  invalides  and  sentimental — 
only  these  names  will  then  be  English  ;  for  France 
is  a  star  eclipsed  in  the  East. 

But,  before  the  world  arrives,  live  awhile  in  the 
loneliness  of  the  Theban  temples  and  tombs,  with 
no  other  society  than  Memnon,  and  the  taciturn  old 
time,  and  the  chibouque.  You  will  seem  then,  not 
to  have  travelled  in  vain,  but  to  have  arrived  some- 
where. Here  you  will  realize  what  you  have  read 
and  thought  you  believed,  that  the  past  was  alive. 
The  great  vague  phantom,  that  goes  ever  before  us, 
will  pause  here,  and  turning,  look  at  you  with  hu- 
man features,  and  speak  a  language  sweet,  and  sol- 
emn, and  strange,  though  unintelligible. 

You,  too,  will  linger  and  linger,  though  the  sun- 
set warn  you  away.  You,  too,  will  tarry  for  the 
priests  in  the  court  of  Meedenet  Haboo,  and  listen 
for  the  voice  of  Memnon.  You,  too,  will  be  glad 
that  the  temples  are  as  time  left  them,  and  that 
man  has  only  wondered,  not  worked,  at  them. 
You,  too,  will  leave  lingeringly  the  Libyan  suburb,, 
and  own  to  Osiris  in  your  heart,  that  if  the  young 
gods  are  glorious,  the  old  gods  were  great. 


XLIII. 

KAKNAK. 

KARNAK  antedates  coherent  history,  yet  it  was 
older  the  day  we  saw  it  than  ever  before.  All 
thought  and  poetry,  inspired  by  its  antiquity,  had 
richer  reason  that  day  than  when  they  were  record- 
ed, and  so  you,  meditative  reader,  will  have  the  ad- 
vantage of  this  chapter,  when  you  stand  in  Karnak. 
Older  than  history,  yet  fresh,  as  if  just  ruined  for 
the  romantic. 

The  stones  of  the  fallen  walls  are  as  sharply- 
edged  as  the  hammer  left  them.  They  lie  in  huge 
heaps,  or  separately  standing  in  the  sand ;  and,  re- 
garding the  freshness,  you  would  say  that  Cambyses 
and  Viis  Persians  had  marched  upon  Memphis  only 
last  week,  while  the  adherents  of  the  earthquake 
theory  of  Egyptian  ruin,  might  fancy  they  yet  felt 
the  dying  throes  of  the  convulsion  that  had  shatter- 
ed these  walls. 

This  freshness  is  startling.  It  is  sublime.  Em- 
balming these  temples  in  her  amber  air,  has  not  na- 
ture so  hinted  the  preservation  of  their  builders' 


330  NILE    NOTES. 

bodies  ?  Was  the  world  so  enamored  of  its  eldest 
born,  that  it  could  not  suffer  even  the  forms  of  his 
races  and  their  works  to  decay  ?  And,  O  mild-eyed 
Isis !  how  beautiful  are  the  balances  of  nature  !  In 
climates  where  damp  and  frost  crack  and  corrode, 
she  cherishes  with  fair  adorning  the  briefer  decay. 
Italy  had  greenly  graced  Karnak  with  foliage. 
Vines  had  there  clustered  and  clambered  caressingly 
around  these  columns,  in  graceful  tendrils  wreathing 
away  into  the  blue  air  its  massive  grace.  Flowery 
grass  had  carpeted  the  courts,  and  close-clinging 
moss  shed  a  bloom  along  the  walls  to  the  distant 
eye  of  hope  or  memory. 

Haply  it  had  been  dearer  so  to  the  painter  and  the 
poet.  But  this  death  that  does  not  decay,  is  awful 
On  the  edge  of  the  desert,  fronting  the  level  green 
that  spreads  velvet  before  it  to  the  river,  Karnak 
scorns  time,  earthquakes,  Cambyses,  and  Lathyrus, 
yes,  and  scorns,  also,  romantic  disappointment.  For 
it  is  not  the  most  interesting  or  pleasing  of  Egyp- 
tian remains.  It  is  austere  and  terrible,  and  sure 
to  disappoint  the  romance  that  seeks  in  ruins,  bow- 
ers of  sentiment.  Let  the  Misses  Verde  remember 
that,  when  they  consider  the  propriety  of  visiting 
Karnak.  Peradventure,  also,  they  will  there  dis- 
cover hieroglyphs  more  inexplicable  than  those  of 
Theban  tombs. 


KARNAK.  331 

When  Thebes  was  Thebes,  an  avenue  of  ram- 
headed  sphinxes  connected  Karnak  with  Luxor. 
Imagination  indulges  visions  of  Ramses  the  Great, 
superb  Sesostris,  or  the  philosophical  Ptolemies, 
going  in  state  along  this  avenue,  passing  from  glory 
to  glory — possibly  a  statelier  spectacle  than  the 
royal  going  to  open  parliament.  Brightly  that 
picture  would  have  illuminated  these  pages.  But 
reality,  our  coldest  critic,  requires  cooler  coloring 
from  us. 

It  was  a  bright  February  morning  that  we  don- 
keyed  placidly  from  ruined  Luxor  to  ruined  Thebes. 
The  Pacha  bestrode  a  beast  that  did  honor  to  the 
spirit  of  his  species.  But  my  brute,  although  large 
and  comely,  seemed  only  a  stuffed  specimen  of  a 
donkey.  Stiffness  and  clumsiness  were  his  points. 
A.  very  gad-fly  of  a  donkey-boy,  his  head  somewhere 
about  my  donkey's  knees,  piloted  our  way  and  fill- 
ed our  sails — namely,  battered  the  animals'  backs. 
But  vainly  with  a  sharpened  stick  he  stung  my  in- 
sensible beast.  Only  a  miserable,  perpendicular 
motion  ensued,  a  very  little  of  which  had  rendered 
beneficent  Halsted  superfluous  to  a  dyspeptic  world. 

Yet  somehow  we  shambled  up  the  sand  from  the 
boat,  and,  passing  through  the  bazaar  of  Luxor, 
entered  upon  the  plain.  A  dusty  donkey-path, 
through  chimps  of  hilfeh  grass  and  sand  patches,  is 


332  NILE    NOTES. 

all  that  remains  of  that  Sphinx  avenue.  We  scent- 
ed sphinxes  all  the  way,  a  mile  and  a  half,  but  un- 
earthed no  quarry  until  within  a  few  rods  of  the 
pylon.  Nero  told  me  afterward,  that  we  had  miss- 
ed the  sphinx  avenue,  which  I  believed,  for  Nero 
was  veracious  and  my  friend.  But  generally,  the 
Howadji  must  reject  all  such  stories.  Not  only  in 
Egypt,  but  wherever  you  wander,  if  some  owl  has 
peered  into  a  hole  that  you  passed  by,  and  he  dis- 
covers the  oversight,  you  are  apprised  that  you  had 
done  better  not  to  come  at  all,  rather  than  miss  the 
dark  hole.  But  we  passed  along  a  range  of  head- 
less, ruined  sphinxes,  that  were  ram-headed  once, 
and  reached  the  southern  pylon.  It  stands  alone — 
a  simple,  sculptured  gateway.  Behind  it,  is  a  small 
temple  of  Ptolemaic  days,  partly,  but  yet  a  portion 
of  the  great  temple,  and  we  climb  its  roof  to  sur- 
vey the  waste  of  Karnak. 

The  vague  disappointment  was  natural,  it  was 
inevitable.  It  was  that  of  entering  St.  Peter's  and 
finding  that  you  can  see  the  end.  Things  so  famous 
pass  into  ideal  proportions.  "  In  heaven,  another 
heaven,"  sings  Schiller,  of  St.  Peter's  dome.  But 
if  Schiller  had  looked  from  Monte  Mario  upon 
Rome  !  It  is  a  disappointment  quite  distinct  from 
the  real  character  of  the  object,  whose  greatness 
presently  compels  you  to  realize  how  great  it  is 


KARNAK.  333 

It  is  simply  the  sudden  contact  of  the  real  with  the 
ideal. 

For  who  ever  saw  the  Coliseum  or  the  Apollo  ? 
And  when  deep  in  the  mountainous  heart  of  Sicily, 
the  Howadji  saw,  green  and  gentle,  the  vale  of 
Enna — did  he  see  the  garden  whence  Pluto  plucked 
his  fairest  flower?  A  Coliseum  and  an  Apollo, 
enough  have  seen.  But  the  impossible  grandeur 
and  grace  of  the  anticipation  are  the  glow  of  the 
ideal — the  outline  of  ancjels  alone.  All  the  vaurue- 

o  O 

ness  and  vastness  of  Egyptian  musing  in  our  minds 
invest  Karnak  with  their  own  illimitability,  and 
gather  around  it  as  the  type  and  complete  embodi- 
ment of  that  idea.  We  go  forth  to  behold  the 
tower  of  Babel,  and  in  ruins,  it  must  yet  pierce  the 
heavens. 

Ah !  insatiable  soul,  Mont  Blanc  was  not  lofty 
enough,  nor  the  Venus  fair,  yet  you  had  hopes  of 
Karnak  !  Try  Baalbec  now,  andDhawnlegiri,  sky- 
scaling  peak  of  the  Himalaya. 

Karnak  was  an  aggregation  of  temples.  Orsi- 
tasenrs  cartouche  is  found  there,  the  first  monarch 
that  is  distinctly  visible  in  Egyptian  history,  and 
Cleopatra's — the  last  of  the  long,  long  line.  Every 
monarch  added  a  pylon,  a  court,  or  a  colonnade,  am- 
bitious each  to  link  his  name  with  the  magnificence 
that  must  outlive  them  all,  and  so  leave  the  car 


334  NILE    NOTES. 

touche  of  Egypt  forever  in  bold  relief  upon  the 
earth. 

The  great  temple  fronted  the  river  westward. 
We  are  at  the  south.  The  eye  follows  the  line  of  the 
great  central  building,  the  nucleus  of  all  the  rest, 
backward  to  the  desert.  It  is  lost  then  in  the 
masses  of  sand,  buried  foundations,  and  prostrate 
walls  which  surround  it.  Separate  pylons  fronting 
the  four  winds,  stand  shattered  and  submerged. 
Sharply  two  obelisks  pierce  the  blue  air.  The 
northern  gateway  stands  lofty  and  alone,  its  neigh- 
boring walls  levelled  and  buried.  The  eastern  gate 
toward  the  desert  was  never  completed,  it  is  only 
half  covered  with  sculptures.  The  blank  death  of 
the  desert  lies  gray  beyond  it.  Karnak  has  grim 
delight  in  that  neighboring  grimness. 

From  each  gate  but  that  desert  one,  stretched  an 
avenue  of  sphinxes — southward  to  Luxor,  n6rth- 
ward  to  a  raised  platform  on  the  hills,  westward  to 
the  river.  The  fragments  yet  remain.  Yet  here, 
too,  is  that  strange  discrepancy  in  taste  and  sense 
of  grandeur,  which  strikes. the  eye  in  the  temple 
sculptures  compared  in  character  with  the  archi- 
tecture. These  avenues  are  narrow  lanes  of 
crowded  sphinxes,  spoiling /their  own  impression. 
The  eye  and  mind  demand  a  splendid  spaciousness 
of  approach.  They  are  shocked  at  the  meanness 


KARNAK.  335 

of  the  reality,  and  recognize  the  same  inconstant 
and  untrue  instinct  that  built  blank  walls  before 
noble  colonnades.  Perhaps  they  were  matters  of 
necessity.  Let  the  artistic  Howadji  hope  they  were. 

Immediately  in  front  of  the  great  pylon  is  the 
green  Nile  plain.  But  sand-drifts  lie  heaped  around 
the  court  of  the  temple.  Patches  of  coarse  hilfeh 
grass  are  the  only  vegetation,  and  a  lonely  little 
lake  of  blue  water  sleeps  cold  in  the  sun,  leafless 
and  waveless  as  a  mountain  tarn. 

Bare  and  imposing  is  this  vast  area  of  desolation. 
But  the  eye  shrinks  from  its  severity,  and  craves 
grace  and  picturesqueness.  The  heights  command 
always  the  sad,  wide  prospects.  Thither  men 
climb  and  look  wistfully  at  the  dim  horizon  of  hu- 
manity, even  dreaming,  sometimes,  that  they  see  be- 
yond. But  they  are  the  melancholy  men,  who  live 
high  in  watch-towers  of  any  kind.  Loftily  are 
they  lifted  upon  the  architecture  of  thought;  but 
love  swoops  upward  on  rainbow  pinions,  and  is  lost 
in  the  sun.  The  relevance,  O  testy  Gunning  f~" 
Simply  that  picturesqueness  is  more  satisfactory  / 
than  sublimity.  So  through  the  great  western  gate- 
way, across  a  court  with  one  solitary  column  erect 
over  its  fallen  peers,  which  lie  their  length,  shatter- 
ed from  their  bases  in  regular  rows,  as  if  they  had 
been  piles  of  millstones  carefully  upset,,  we  enter 


336  NILE    NOTES. 

the  great  hall  of  Karnak.     Shall  I  say,  the  grandest 
ruin  of  the  world  ? 

For  this  is  truly  Karnak.  Here  your  heart  will 
bow  in  reverence,- and  pay  homage  to  the  justice 
of  this  fame.  A  solemn  druidical  forest  shaped  in 
stone,  and  flowering  with  the  colored  sculptured 
forms  of  dead  heroes,  and  a  history  complete.  Not 
so  graceful  as  the  columned  grove  of  the  Memno- 
nium,  but  grand,  and  solemn,  and  majestic,  incon- 
ceivably. 

Through  the  vast  vistas,  the  eye  cannot  steal  out 
to  the  horizon,  or  catch  gladly  the  waving  of  green 
boughs.  Only  above,  through  the  open  spaces  of 
the  architrave,  it  sees  the  cloudless  sky,  and  the  ear 
hears  the  singing  of  unseen  birds. 

"  Is  it  not  strange,  I  never  saw  the  sun  ?"  So 
seems  the  song  of  birds  never  to  have  been  heard 
until  its  sweetness  was  contrasted  with  the  sublime, 
solemn  silence  of  Karnak. 

Here,  could  you  choose  of  all  men  your  compan 
ion,  you  would  call  Michel  Angelo,  and  then  step 
out  and  leave  him  alone.  For  it  is  easy  to  summon 
spirits,  but  hard  to  keep  them  company.  And  a 
man  could  better  bear  the  imposing  majesty  of 
Karnak,  than  the  searching  sadness  of  the  artist's 
eye.  In  the  valley  of  the  Nile,  Michel  Angelo 
would  have  felt  that  great  artists  unknown,  saw 


KARNAK.  337 

with  their  eyes  in  their  way,  the  form  of  the  grand- 
eur he  sought.  In  Memnon,  in  the  great  hall  of 
Karnak,  distorted  as  through  clouds  and  mists,  yet 
not  all  unshaped.  he  would  have  seen  that  an  ideal 
as  grand  was  worshipped,  nor  have  grieved  that  it 
was  called  by  another  name.  His  eye,  too,  would 
have  wandered  delighted  over  the  mingled  sweet- 
ness and  severity  of  the  Egyptian  landscape,  vast 
and  silent,  and  sun-steeped  as  the  inner  realm  in 
which  he  lived. 

Failing  Michel  Angelo,  there  were  other  figures 
in  the  hall.  Sundry  veiled  spectres  were  sketch- 
ing the  unsketchable.  Plaid  pantaloons  and  turbari- 
ed  wide-awakes  flitted  among  the  figures  of  gods 
and  heroes.  I  saw  a  man  with  a  callotype,  invest- 
ing Karnak. — Nimrod  has  mounted — tally-ho  ! 

Nor  fear  a  jest  in  Karnak,  nor  suppose  a  ringing 
laugh  can  destroy  this  silence.  We  speak,  q,nd  the 
stillness  ripples  around  the  sound,  and  swallows  it 
as  tracelessly  as  mid-ocean  a  stone.  Nor  because 
Karnak  is  solemn,  suppose  that  we  must  be  senti- 
mental. The  Howadji  sat  upon  a  sloping  stone, 
and  eat  sardine  sandwiches,  deserting  with  dates 
and  the  chibouque,  and  the  holy  of  holies  was  not 
less  holy,  nor  the  grandeur  less  grand. 

In  the  afternoon  we  wandered  over  the  whole 

wilderness 'o'f  ruin,    studying  the    sculptures,    de- 
15 


338  NiLE    NOTES. 

ciphering  the  cartouches,  stumbling  and  sliding  in 
the  sand  down  to  temples,  whose  colored  archi- 
traves showed  level  with  the  ground,  so  deeply 
were  they  buried.  For  travel  and  opportunity  have 
their  duties.  But  we  returned  to  the  great  hall, 
as  thought  always  will  return  to  it,  from  grubbing 

•  the  wondrous  waste  of  Egypt,  and  at  sunset  as- 
.-ended  the  great  pylon  and  looked  across  the  river 
westward,  to  the  Libyan  suburb. 

The  Howadji  returned  the  next  day  to  Karnak  ; 
arid  the  next,  a  golden  sunset  streamed  through 
it  as  they  were  finally  departing.  In  the  tenderness 
of  its  serene  beauty,  Karnak  became  beautiful,  too 
The  colors  upon  the  architraves  and  columns  shone 
more  deeply,  and  a  rainbow-radiance  permeated  the 
solemn  hall.  Nimrod  was  coursing  through  the 
Libyan  suburb.  Glowingly  golden  ranged  the  level 
grain,  rank  on  rank,  to  the  river.  The  birds  gushed 
with  their  swift,  sweet,  sunset  songs.-  How  young, 
how  shadowy  were  we,  in  that  austere  antiquity ! 
Was  it  compassion  that  unbent  its  awful  gravity  ? 

No,  gad-fly  !  stinging  my  perpendicular  trotting 
insensibility.  Souls  like  ours  conceived,  hands  like 
ours  fashioned,  this  awful  Karnak.  Never  succumb 
to  Karnak,  gad-fly!  Man  shaped  the  desert  into  this 
divinity.  Pygmalion  carved  the  statue  that  smote 
his  soul  with  love. 


XLIV. 

PRUNING, 

A  SACRIFICIAL  sheep  stood  in  the  stai  light  on  the 
shore  at  Luxor.  The  golden-sleeved  Commander 
was  profoundly  religious,  and  proposed  to  hold  a 
sacred  feast  of  sheep — "  a  swarry  of  biled  mutton," 
as  later  poets  have  it — upon  his  return  to  Cairo. 
The  victim  was  put  below,  the  crew  rose  from 
squatting  on  the  shore  and  came  aboard,  and  with 
plaintive  songs  and  beating  oars  we  drifted  down  the 
river  once  more,  and  watched  the  dim  Theban 
mountains  melt  slowly  away  into  invisibility. 

You  fancy  the  Nile  voyage  is  a  luxury  of  languid 
repose — a  tropical  trance.  There  the  warm  winds 
lave  groves  forever  green,  of  which,  shivering  in 
our  wintry  palaces,  we  dream.  Stealing  swiftly 
over  the  Mediterranean,  you  would,  swallow-like, 
follow  the  summer,  and  shuffling  off'  the  coil  of  care 
at  Cairo,  would  southward  sail  to  the  equator,  hap- 
piness, and  mountains  of  the  moon. 

Well,  single  days  are  that  delight,  and  to  me,  the 


340  NILE    NOTES. 

whole  voyage,  but  possibly  not  to  you.  A  diamond 
decked  damsel  is  not  a  single  jewel,  although  haply, 
to  the  distant  eye,  she  brilliantly  blaze  like  a  star. 
Therefore,  to  the  distance  of  hope  and  memory,  will 
the  Nile  wear  its  best  hue.  Nor  will  we  quarrel. 
To  hope,  all  things  are  forgiven.  Let  us  pardon 
memory  that  if.  remembers  like  a  lover. 

It  is  hard  to  believe  in  winds  under  a  cloudless 
sky,  or  to  feel  chilly  when  the  sun  shines  brightly. 
The  mind  cannot  readily  separate  the  climate  from 
the  character  of  the  land.  We  never  fancy  gales 
in  church-yards,  only  sad  twilight  breaths,  and 
Egypt  being  a  tomb,  to  imagination,  how  should 
there  be  windy  weather? 

A  tomb — but  a  temple.  From  the  minaretted 
mosques  of  Cairo  you  descend  into  it,  and  well  be- 
lieve that  the  back  door  opens  into  heaven.  The 
river  is  its  broad,  winding  avenue.  The  glaring 
mountains,  its  walls,  the  serene  sky,  its  dome.  On 
either  hand,  as  you  advance,  is  the  way  sculptured 
with  green  grain  and  palms  of  peace,  as  in  those 
Theban  tombs.  And  more  splendid  are  the  niches 
of  the  dead  here,  than  the  palaces  of  the  living — 
Karnak,  the  Memnonium,  Kum  Ombos,  Aboo  Sim- 
bel.  Ghosts  are  their  tenants  now — Champollion, 
Lepsius,  and  Sir  Gardner,  the  tireless  Old  Mortali 
ties  that  chisel  their  fading  characters. 


PRUNING.  341 

Here  are  enough  buried  to  populate  the  world. 
The  priests  told  Herodotus  a  succession  of  more 
than  three  hundred  kings.  The  thought  bores  anti- 
quity like  an  Artesian  well.  The  Howadji  looks 
upon  Ramses  as  a  modern,  and  grudges  him  that 
name  of  great.  He  appears  everywhere.  From 
the  pyramids  to  Aboo  Simbel,  in  all  the  best  places 
of  the  best  remains,  his  cartouche  is  carved.  Why 
was  he  great?  What  do  we  know,  who  call  him 
so,  but  the  fact  of  his  being  a  conqueror  and  a 
builder  of  temples  with  the  captives  he  caught,  to 
sculpture  the  walls  with  the  story  of  their  own  de- 
feat ? 

Tamerlane  the  Great  tickles  the  ear  as  well. 
Vain  he  clearly  was,  and  enterprising.  Let  his 
greatness  be  proved.  Ah  !  had  we  been  Athenians, 
should  we  not  have  black-balled  the  bejusted  Aris- 
tides  ? 

When  you  descend  into  this  tomb  so  stately,  the 
western  world  recedes,  and  you  hear  of  it  no  more, 
and  wonder  only  how  easily  you  can  accustom 
yourself  to  know  nothing  that  happens  in  the 
world.  The  sleep  of  Egypt  steals  into  your  soul. 
Here,  to  apprise  you  of  cotemporary  affairs,  roars 
no  thunderous  "  Times"  ;  no  eclectic  "  Gal/gnani" 
reaches,  speaking  all  sentiments  and  espousing  none. 
No  safe  '*  Dcbats"  is  here.  No  rocket-sparkling 


342  NILE    NOTES. 

"  Presse"  No  heavy-freighted  "Allgemeine  Zeitung" 
lumbers  along  this  way,  making  a  canal  of  the  Nile. 
On  this  golden  air  float  no  yearling  Italian  leaves 
gracefully  traced  with  dream-lines  of  liberty.  How 
much  less  any  "Herald,"  hot  with  special  expresses 
from  Grim  Tartary,  or  thoughtful  "Tribune,"  obvi- 
ating the  obliquity  of  the  earth's  axis. 

You  take  your  last  draught  of  news  at  Cairo,  and 
are  the  devotee  of  the  old  till  you  return.  Know- 
ing all  this,  how  can  the  traveller,  much  more  the 
anti-rolling-stone  partisans,  who  read  of  sunshine 
in  the  glow  of  Liverpool  or  anthracite,  imagine 
wind  in  Egypt  ?  Wind  !  type  of  active  life  in  that 
death-silence  !  No,  no,  say  you,  hie  to  Egypt,  and 
be  still  and  warm. 

Still  ?  Why,  the  wild  winds  pace  up  and  down 
the  valley  of  the  Nile,  like  his  mad  hounds  howling 
for  Acteou,  like  all  the  ghosts  of  all  the  three  hun- 
dred dynasties  anterior  to  history,  demanding  to 
live  again.  Ally  of  the  desert,  the  wind  whirls  the 
sand  into  columns  and  clouds  that  sweep  athwart 
the  eternal  smile  of  the  sky,  and  sink,  death-dealing, 
upon  the  plain.  It  smites  the  palms,  and  as  they 
stretch  straight  their  flexile  limbs,  utterly  consumes 
their  grace.  It  tortures  the  river  into  a  foamy,  bil 
lovvy  swell,  and  the  soul  of  the  be-veiled,  be-gog 
gled  traveller  into  rage  and  despair.  Unless,  indeed 


PRUNING.  343 

it  favor  his  course.  Then  all  is  forgiven.  Even 
the  loss  of  the  calm,  which  the  character  of  the 
land  requires,  is  forgiven ;  for  he  fancies  windless 
days  returning,  and  dreamy  drifting  upon  the 
stream. 

So  did  we.  Glad  when  the  Ibis  fled  with  full 
wings,  we  prophesied  the  peace  of  our  return,  and 
the  gentle  gliding  before  southerly  winds.  Yet  the 
wind  that  blew  us  from  Asyoot  to  Aboo  Simbel 
did  not  end  its  voyage  with  ours.  As  we  returned, 
the  northerly  wind  blew  for  a  month,  lulling  a  little 
now  and  then,  even  at  times  yielding  to  the  south. 
But  no  sooner  were  we  upon  our  way,  than  it  was 
off  with  us.  Sometimes  it  slept  with  us  at  night ; 
but  infallibly  rose  before  we  did  at  morning. 
"Dream-life,"  said  Nero,  at  Thebes,  deciphering  a 
Greek  inscription  on  Memnon's  shin.  "  What  with 
sketching,  shooting,  reading,  writing,  and  all  in  this 
inexorable  wind,  a  pretty  dream-life  I  find  it." 
There  are  the  poets,  again,  guilty  of  another  count! 

Warm  ?  Why,  the  Howadji  sat  more  volumin- 
ously swathed  in  coats,  cloaks,  and  shawls,  than  a 
mummy  in  his  spiced  bandages.  They  began  brave- 
ly, with  sitting  in  front  of  the  cabin,  and  warmly 
wrapped  in  winter  clothes,  and  only  a  little  chilly, 
played  that  it  was  summer,  and  conversed  in  a  fee- 
ble, poetic  way,  of  the  Egyptian  climate.  Gradu- 


344  NILE    NOTES. 

ally  they  retreated  to  the  divans  in  the  cabin,  and 
cursed  the  cold.  I  was  sure  that  a  blue  fleet  of 
icebergs  had  undertaken  the  Nile  voyage,  and  were 
coming  up  behind  us.  I  knew  that  we  should 
meet  white  bear  for  hippopotami,  walruses  for 
crocodiles,  and  the  north  pole  for  the  equa- 
tor. Why  not  push  on  and  find  Sir  John 
Franklin  ! 

So  the  wind  and  cold  hovered,  awful,  upon  the 
edges  of  dreaming.  Southward,  southward,  no 
hope  but  the  tropic,  and  we  entered  the  tropic  one 
chilly  morning  that  would  not  let  me  think  of 
Mungo  Park,  but  only  of  Captain  Parry. 

O  cow-horned  Isis,  and  thou,  western  Athor, 
forgive,  that  so  far  this  pen  could  go,  so  much  trea- 
son trace,  to  the  eternal  warm  repose  of  your  land. 
Yet  only  by  a  force  that  compelled  exaggeration 
could  it  be  induced.  The  book  is  closed  now — the 
daguerreotype  of  those  days.  Egypt  is  given  to 
the  past,  and  memory  shows  it  windless  as  a  pic- 
ture. There  it  lies  golden-shored  in  eternal  sum- 
mer. I  confess  it  now — Egypt  is  that  dream-land, 
that  tropical  trance.  There  lingers  the  fadeless 
green,  of  which,  shivering  in  our  white  wintry 
palaces,  we  dream.  The  howling  ghosts  are  laid  ; 
those  wild  winds  have  all  blown  themselves  away  ; 
that  fleet  of  icebergs  has  joined  the  Spanish  Armada. 


PRUNING.  345 

The  Nile  does  not  lead  to  the  North-west  Passage, 
nor  is  Mungo  Park  a  myth. 

Memory  is  the  magician.  She  cuts  the  fangs 
from  the  snakes  that  stung  the  past,  and  wreaths 
them,  rainbow  garlands,  around  its  paling  brows. 
The  evil  days  are  not  remembered.  Time,  as  a 
purging  wind,  blows  them  like  dead  leaves  away,  as 

winds  window  the  woods  in  autumn. 
15* 


XLV. 

PER  CONTRA, 

FOR  the  dream-days  dawn — lotus-eating  days  of 
faith  in  the  poets  as  the  only  practical  people,  be- 
cause all  the  world  is  poetry — of  capitulation  to 
Bishop  Berkeley,  and  confession  that  only  we  exist, 
and  the  rest  is  sheer  seeming — when  thought  is  ar- 
duous, and  reading  wasteful,  and  the  smoke  of  the 
chibouque  scarcely  aerial  enough — days  that  dis- 
solve the  world  in  light.  The  azure  air  and  azure 
water  mingle.  We  float  in  rosy  radiance,  through 
which  waves  the  shore — a  tremulous  opacity. 

In  the  Arabian  Night  days  of  life,  come,  haunt- 
ingly,  vague  desires  to  make  the  long  India  voyage. 
The  pleasant  hiatus  in  actual  life — the  musing  mo- 
notony of  the  day — the  freedom  of  the  imagination 
on  a  calm  sea,  under  a  cloudless  sky — the  far  float- 
ings  before  trade-winds — the  strange  shores  embow- 
ered with  tropical  luxuriance,  and  an  exhaustless 
realm  of  new  experience,  are  the  forms  and  fascina- 
tion of  that  longing. 


PER    CONTRA.  347 

But  the  Nile  more  fairly  realizes  that  dream- 
voyage.  The  blank  monotony  of  sea  and  sky  is 
relieved  here  by  the  tranquil,  ever- varying,  grace- 
ful shores,  the  constant  panorama  of  a  life  new  to 
the  eye,  oldest  to  the  mind,  and  associations  unique 
in  history.  The  palms,  the  desert,  the  fair  fertility 
of  unfading  fields,  mosques,  minarets,  camels,  the 
broad  beauty  of  the  tranced  river — these  unsphere 
us,  were  there  no  Thebes,  no  Sphinx,  no  Memnon, 
Pyramids,  or  Karnak,  no  simple  traditions  of  Scrip- 
ture, and  wild  Arabian  romances — the  sweetest 
stories  of  our  reading. 

In  the  early  morning,  flocks  of  water-birds  are 
ranged  along  the  river — herons,  kingfishers,  flamin- 
goes, ducks,  ibis — a  motley  multitude  in  the  shadow 
of  the  high  clay  banks,  or  on  the  low  sandy  strips. 
They  spread  languid  wings,  and  sail  snowily  away. 
The  sun  strikes  them  into  splendor.  They  float  and 
fade,  and  are  lost  in  the  brilliance  of  the  sky.  Under 
the  sharp,  high  rocks,  at  the  doors  of  their  cliff-re- 
treats, sit  sagely  the  cormorants,  and  meditate  the 
passing  Howadji.  Like  larger  birds  reposing,  shine 
the  sharp  sails  of  boats  near  or  far.  Their  images 
strike  deep  into  the  water  and  tremble  away. 

Then  come  the  girls  and  women  to  the  water-side, 
bearing  jars  upon  their  heads  On  the  summit  of 
the  bank  they  walk  erect  and  stately,  profile-drawn 


NILE    NOTES. 

against  the  sky.  Bending,  and  plashing,  and  play- 
ing in  the  water,  with  little  jets  of  laugh  that  would 
brightly  flash,  if  we  could  see  them,  they  fill  their 
jars,  and  in  a  long  file  recede  and  disappear  among  the 
Bairns.  Over  the  brown  mud  villages  the  pigeons 
coo  and  fly,  and  hang  by  hundreds  upon  the  clumsy 
towers  built  for  them,  and  a  long  pause  of  sun  and 
silence  follows. 

Presently  turbanned  Abraham  with  flowing  gar- 
ment and  snowy  beard,  leaning  upon  his  staff,  passes 
with  Sarah  along  the  green  path  on  the  river's  edge 
toward  Memphis  and  King  Pharaoh.  On  the  oppo- 
site desert  lingers  Hagar  with  Ishmael,  pausing, 
pausing,  and  looking  back. 

The  day  deepens,  calmer  is  the  calm.  It  is  noon, 
and  magnificent  Dendereh  stands  inland  on  the 
desert  edge  of  Libya,  a  temple  of  rare  preservation, 
of  Isis-headed  columns,  with  the  same  portrait  of 
Cleopatra  upon  the  walls — a  temple  of  silence,  with 
dark  chambers  cool  from  the  sun,  and  the  sculptures 
in  cabinet  squares  upon  the  wall.  Let  it  float  by, 
no  more  than  a  fleeting  picture  forever  It  is  St. 
Valentine's  Day,  but  they  are  harvesting  upon  the 
shores,  resting  awhile  now,  till  the  sun  is  sloping. 
The  shadeless  Libyan  and  Arabian  highlands  glare 
upon  the  burning  sun.  The  slow  sakias  sing  and 
sigh.  The  palms  are  moveless  as  in  the  backgrounds 


PER    CONTRA.  349 

of  old  pictures.  To  our  eyes  it  is  perpetual  picture 
slowly  changing.  The  shore-lines  melt  into  new 
forms,  other,  yet  the  same.  We  know  not  if  we 
wake  or  sleep,  so  dream-like  exquisite  is  either  sleep- 
ing or  waking. 

The  afternoon  declines  as  we  drift  slowly  under 
Aboofayda  with  a  soft  south  wind.  Its  cliffs  are  like 
masses  of  old  masonry,  and  wheeling  hawks  swoop 
downward  to  its  sharp,  bold  peaks.  Ducks  are 
diving  in  the  dark  water  of  its  shadow.  The  white 
radiance  of  the  noon  is  more  rosily  tinged.  Every 
form  is  fairer  in  the  westering  light.  We  left  Asyoot 
yesterday ;  at  evening  we  saw  its  many  minarets 
fade  in  the  dark  of  the  hills,  like  the  strains  of  ara- 
besqued  Arabian  songs  dying  in  the  twilight,  and  at 
dusk  a  solitary  jackal  prowled  stealthily  along  the 
shore.  Joseph's  brethren  pass  with  camels  and 
asses,  to  buy  corn  in  Egypt.  Geese  in  arrowy  flight 
pierce  the  profound  repose  of  the  sky.  Golden 
gloom  gathers  in  the  palm-groves.  Among  the 
scaled  trunks,  like  columns  of  a  temple,  passes  a 
group  of  girls  attending  Pharaoh's  daughter.  Shall 
we  reach  the  shore  before  her,  and  find  the  young 
Moses,  Nile-nursed  with  the  sweet  sound  of  calmly 
flowing  waters,  and  the  sublime  silence  of  the  sky  ? 

The  sun  sets  far  over  Libya.  He  colors  the  death 
of  the  desert,  as  he  tinges  the  live  sea  in  his  setting 


350  NILE    NOTES. 

Dark  upon  the  molten  west,  in  waving,  rounding 
lines,  the  fading  flights  of  birds  are  yet  traced,  seek- 
ing the  rosy  south,  or  following  the  sun.  The  day- 
dies  divinely  as  it  lived.  Primeval  silence  surrounded 
us  all  the  time.  What  life  and  sound  we  saw  and 
heard,  no  more  jarred  the  silence,  than  the  aurora 
lights  the  night.  What  a  wild  myth  is  wind  ! 
Wind — wind,  what  is  wind  ? 

The  dazzling  moon  succeeds,  and  the  night  is  only 
a  day  more  delicate.  A  solitary  phantom  bark  glides 
singing  past — its  sail  as  dark  below  as  above,  twin- 
winged  in  air  and  water.  Whither,  whither,  ye 
ghostly  mariners  ?  Why  so  sad  your  singing  ? 
Why  so  languid-weary  the  slow  plash  of  oars  ? 

The  moon  in  rising  glows  over  Antinoe,  under 
whose  palms  we  float,  and  in  the  warm  hush  of  the 
evening  we  see  again,  and  now  for  the  first  time  per- 
fectly, the  rounded  ripeness  of  those  lips,  the  divinely 
drooping  lid,  the  matted  curls  clinging  moist  and 
close  around  the  head  and  neck — the  very  soul  of 
southern  Antinous  breathed  over  the  Nile.  The 
moon,  striking  the  water,  paves  so  golden  a  path  to 
the  shore  that  imagination  glides  along  the  dream, 
fades  in  Arabia,  and  gaining  the  Tigris — for  the  last 
time,  incensed  reader  ! — pays  court  to  the  only  caliph, 
and  is  entertained  in  that  west-winded,  rose-odored 
street,  which  the  loves  and  lovers  of  the  caliph  know. 


PER    CONTRA.  ' 

— Or  only  the  stars  shine.  Strange  that  in  a  land 
where  stars  shine  without  the  modesty  of  mist,  wo- 
men veil  their  faces.  Clearly,  Mohammed  received 
his  inspired  leaves  in  a  star-screened  cave,  and  not 
in  the  full  face  of  heaven.  But  let  him  still  sus- 
pended be ;  for,  dimly  glancing  among  the  palms, 
silverly  haloed  by  the  stars  that  loved  his  manger, 
behold  the  young  child  and  his  mother,  with  Joseph 
leading  the  ass,  flying  into  the  land. 

Tarry  under  the  stars  till  morning,  if  you  will, 
seeing  the  pictures  that  earliest  fancy  saw,  dream- 
ing the  dreams  that  make  life  worth  the  living. 
The  midnight  will  be  only  weirder  than  the  noon, 
not  more  rapt.  Come,  Commander,  spread  that  di- 
van into  a  bed.  Galleries  of  fairest  fame  are  not  all 
Raphaels,  yet  justly  deserve  their  name,  and  so  does 
our  river  life. 

Good  night,  Pacha,  the  day  was  dreamier  than 
your  dreamiest  dream. 


XLVI. 

MEMPHIS, 


-;<  From  the  steep 


Of  utmost  Asrume,  uatil  he  spreads, 

Like  a  calm  flock  of  silver-fleeced  sheep. 
His  waters  on  the  plain  ;  and  crested  heads 
Of  cities  and  proud  temples  gleam  amid, 
Aud  many  a  vapor-belted  pyramid." 


"  MEMPHIS,"  said  the  Commander,  as  he  was  rub- 
bing a  spoon  one  morning,  pointing  with  his  thumb 
over  his  shoulder. 

The  Howadji  turned  his  eyes  westward  to  behold 
magnificent  Memphis — the  last  royal  residence  of 
genuine  Egypt — the  abode  of  Pharaohs  and  their 
queens — where  Abraham  left  Sarah,  when  he  went 
on  to  see  the  pyramids — a  city  built  in  the  channel 
of  the  river,  which  was  diverted  by  King  Menes  for 
that  purpose. 

The  Howadji  looked  to  see  the  sacred  lake  over 
which  the  dead  were  ferried,  and  on  whose  farther 
shore  sat  the  forty-two  judges  who  decreed  or  de- 
nied the  rites  of  burial.  The  Acherusian  lake  near 
Memphis  surrounded,  as  the  old  Diodorus  said,  by 


MEMPHIS.  353 

beautiful  meadows  and  canals,  fringed  with  lotus 
and  flowering  rushes.  It  was  a  boat  called  Baris 
that  performed  this  office,  and  a  penny  was  paid  to 
the  boatman,  named  by  the  Egyptians,  Charon.  He 
says  that  Orpheus  carried  to  Greece  the  outlines  of 
these  stories,  and  Homer  hearing,  wrought  them 
into  the  Greek  mythology. 

The  Howadji  looked  to  see  the  gorgeous  temple 
of  Isis  and  of  Apis,  the  bull,  who  was  kept  in  anin- 
closure,  and  treated  as  a  god.  He  had  a  white  mark 
on  his  forehead,  and  other  small  spots  on  his  body, 
the  rest  being  black.  And  when  he  died,  another 
was  selected,  from  having  certain  signs,  to  take  his 
place. 

He  looked  to  see  the  ranges  of  palaces,  which 
Strabo  did  not  see  until  they  were  ruined  and  de- 
serted, and  all  the  pomp  of  royal,  and  priestly,  and 
burial,  processions — the  bearers  of  flowers,  fruit,  and 
cakes  that  preceded — the  friends  in  brilliant  gar- 
ments that  followed — the  strewers  of  palm-boughs 
that  paved  the  way  with  smooth  green,  over  which 
the  funeral  car  slid  more  easily — barges  of  bouquets 
then,  and  groups  of  mourners — a  high-priest  burning 
incense  over  an  altar,  and,  above,  the  images  of  se- 
rene Osiris  and  his  cow-horned  spouse.  These  were 
the  pomps  and  shows  he  looked  to  see,  and  all  the 
thousand  glowing  pictures  of  a  realm  without  liirit 


354  NILE    NOTES. 

to  the  imagination — luxuriant  life  developing  in 
the  most  beautiful  and  brilliant  display.  And  the 
Howadji  turning,  saw  a  few  sand  mounds,  and  a 
group  of  pyramids  upon  the  horizon. 

Nothing  remains  of  Memphis  but  a  colossus  of 
Ramses,  with  his  head  deeply  buried  in  the  earth — 
overflowed  yearly  by  the  Nile,  yet  full  of  the  same 
fascinating  character — another  representation  of  the 
old  Egyptian  type  of  beauty,  shattered  and  sub- 
merged near  a  palm -shored  lake.  Past  the  lake  we 
went,  and  over  the  broad  belt  of  green  that  sepa- 
rates the  palms  from  the  desert,  and  then  up  the 
steep  sand-slopes  to  the  pyramids  of  Saccara. 

Standing  at  the  foot  of  the  largest,  and  looking 
desertward,  the  Howadji  beheld  a  landscape  which 
is  unlike  all  others.  Upon  the  chaotic  desert  that 
tumbles  eastward  from  an  infinite  horizon,  jagged  in 
sandy  billows,  that  seem,  in  huge  recoil,  back  falling 
apon  themselves,  at  the  edge  of  the  green,  rose  the 
multitude  of  pyramids — twelve  or  more  in  number 
— near  and  far—dumb,  inexplicable  forms — like 
remains  of  a  former  creation  that  had  endured, 
through  strength,  all  intervening  changes.  Dim 
mest,  and  farthest  of  all,  the  great  pyramids  of  Ghi- 
zeh,  looming  in  the  faint  haze  of  noon,  like  the  relics 
of  fore-world  art,  defying  curiosity  and  speculation. 
The  solid  mass  of  these  structures  weighed  palpably 


MEMPHIS.  355 

on  the  mind.  A  dead  antediluvian  silence  settled 
around  them,  and  seemed  to  benumb  the  faculties  of 
the  observer,  unmooring  him  by  its  spell  from  the 
sentient  sphere,  to  let  him  drift,  aimless  and  without 
guide,  into  black  death  and  darkness.  It  was  a  ba- 
silisk fascination  that  held  the  eye  to  the  sight.  The 
pyramid-studded  desert  was  the  strange  verge  and 
mingling  point  of  the  dead  and  living  worlds.  Yet 
they  stood  there,  telling  no  tales,  and  the  eye,  at 
length  released,  slipped  willingly  far  away  over  the 
palms,  and  beheld  the  glittering  minarets  of  Cairo. 

The  mummy-merchants  were  here  at  Saccara,  and 
offered  endless  treasure  of  amulet,  and  idol,  and 
iewel,  and  from  the  great  cat  catacomb  hard  by,  and 
the  bird-tombs,  mummied  cats,  and  deified  ibis  done 
up  in  red  pots,  as  the  remains  and  memorials  of 
mighty  Memphis. 

The  Howadji  returned  over  the  same  glad,  green 
plain.  They  had  prowled  into  a  brace  of  dark,  dis- 
mal tombs,  and  leaned  against  a  pyramid — had  seen 
the  beautiful  statue,  with  the  body  broken,  and  the 
face  hidden — a  sad  symbol — and  the  pleasant  palms 
and  sunny  green  slopes  under  them.  They  returned 
through  the  most  spacious  and  beautiful  of  palm- 
groves.  Forgive  their  eyes  and  imaginations  that 
they  lingered  long  in  those  beautiful  reaches,  ave- 
nues, and  vistas.  It  was  as  if  the  genius  of  palms 


356  NILE    NOTES. 

knew  that  his  lovers  were  passing,  and  he  unrolled 
and  revealed  his  most  perfect  beauty  as  an  adieu. 
It  was  a  forest  of  the  finest  palms — a  tropic  in  itself 
— through  whose  foliage  the  blue  sky  streamed,  and 
amid  which  bright  birds  flew.  They  are  the  last 
palms  that  shall  be  planted  on  these  pages,  and  the 
last  that  shall  fade  from  memory.  The  young  ones 
seem  not  to  expand  from  saplings  into  trees,  but  to 
spring,  Minerva-like,  fully  formed  and  foliaged, 
through  the  earth  ;  for  they  bear  all  their  wide- 
waving  crest  of  boughs  when  they  first  appear,  and 
the  trunk  is  so  large  that  you  fancy  some  gracious 
gnome,  intent  on  adorning  a  world,  is  thrusting 
them  by  main  force  through  the  ground.  As  we 
reached  the  edge  of  this  cheerful  forest,  we  saw  very 
plainly  the  white  citadel  of  Cairo  and  its  lofty  mina- 
rets, high  above  the  city. 

We  slipped  down  to  Ghizeh,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing donkeyed  quietly  to  the  pyramids.  Except  for 
the  sake  of  the  Sphinx,  the  Howadji  would  only  ad 
vise  the  visit  to  the  scientific  and  curious,  and  is  the 
more  willing  to  say  so,  because  he  knows  that  every 
traveller  would  not  fail  to  go.  But  the  pyramids 
were  built  for  the  distant  eye,  and  their  poetic 
grandeur  and  charm  belong  to  distance.  When  your 
eye  first  strikes  them,  as  you  come  up  from  Alexan- 
dria to  Cairo,  they  stand  vast,  vague,  rcsy,  and  dis- 


MEMPHIS.  357 

tant,  and  are  at  once  and  entirely  the  Egypt  of  your 
dreams.  The  river  winds  and  winds,  and  they  seem 
to  shift  their  places,  to  be  now  here,  now  there, 'now 
on  the  western  shore,  now  on  the  eastern,  until 
Egypt  becomes,  to  your  only  too  glowing  fancy,  a 
bright  day  and  a  pyramid. 

Walk  out  beyond  the  village  of  Grhizeh  at  twilight 
then,  and  see  them,  not  nearer  than  the  breadth  of 
the  plain.  They  will  seem  to  gather  up  the  whole 
world  into  silence,  and  you  will  feel  a  pathos  in 
their  dumbness,  quite  below  your  tears.  They  have 
outlived  speech,  and  are  no  more  intelligible.  Yet 
the  freshness  of  youth  still  flushes  in  the  sunset  along 
their  sides,  and  even  these  severe  and  awful  forms 
have  a  beautiful  bloom  as  of  Hesperidean  fruit,  in 
your  memory  and  imagination.  The  Howadji  may 
well  learn  with  pleasure  that  the  Cairo  Bedlam  is 
abolished,  when  he  feels  his  memory  putting  the 
pyramids  as  flowers  in  her  garden.  For  they  are 
that.  They  are  beautiful  no  less  than  awful  in  re- 
membrance. 

But  as  you  approach,  they  shrink  and  shrink  ;  and 
when  you  stand  at  their  bases,  and  cast  your  eye  to 
the  apex,  they  are  but  vast  mountains  of  masonry, 
sloping  upward  to  the  sky.  Beastly  Bedoueen,  im- 
portunate for  endless  bucksheesh,  will  pull  you, 
breathless  and  angry,  to  the  summit,  and  promise  to 


353  NILE    NOTES. 

run  up  and  over  all  possible  pyramids,  and  for  aught 
you  know,  throw  you  across  to  the  peaks  .of  the 
Saccara  cousins.  Only  threats  most  terrible,  and 
entirely  impossible  of  performance,  can  restore  the 
necessary  silence.  Express  distinctly  your  determi- 
nation to  plunge  every  Bedoueen  down  the  pyramid, 
when  they  have  you  dizzy,  and  breathless,  and  gasp- 
ing on  the  sides,  as  you  go  up  from  layer  to  layer, 
like  stairs — swear  horribly  in  your  gasping  and  rage, 
that  you  will  only  begin  by  throwing  them  down,- 
but  conclude  by  annihilating  the  whole  tribe  who 
haunt  the  pyramids,  and  you  work  a  miracle.  For 
the  Bedoueen  become  as  placidly  silent  as  if  your 
threats  were  feasible,  and  only  mutter  mildly, 
"Bucksheesh,  Howadji,"  like  retiring  and  innocent 
thunder. 

There  are,  also,  who  explore  the  pyramids  :  who, 
from  poetic  or  other  motives,  go  into  an  utterly  dark, 
hot,  and  noisome  interior,  see  a  broken  sarcophagus, 
feel  that  they  are  encased  in  solid  masonry  of  some 
rods  from  the  air,  hear  the  howls  of  Bedoueen,  and 
smell  their  odors,  and  return  faint,  exhausted,  smoke- 
blackened,  with  their  pockets  picked,  and  their 
nerves  direfully  disturbed.  Poet  Harriet  advises 
none  but  firmly-nerved  ladies  to  venture,  and  the 
Howadji  may  add  the  same  advice  to  all  but  firm- 
ly-nerved men.  To  such,  the  exploration  of  the 


MEMPHIS.  H59 

pyramids  may  be  as  it  was  to  Nero — a  grand  arid 
memo'rable  epoch  in  life.  For  lie  said  that  he  felt 
the  greatness  of  old  Egypt  more  profoundly  in  the 
pyramids  than  anywhere  else. 

Yet  you  must  seek  the  pyramids,  else  would  you 
miss  the  Sphinx,  and  that  memory  of  omission 
would  more  sadly  haunt  you  afterward,  than  her  rid- 
dle haunted  the  old  victims  of  her  spells. 

The  desert  is  too  enamored  of  his  grotesque  dar- 
ling, and  gradually  gathers  around  it,  and  draws  it 
back  again  to  his  bosom.  For  it  well  seems  the  child 
of  desert  inspiration.  Intense  oriental  imagination, 
musing  over  the  wonderful  waste'  would  build  its 
dreams  in  shapes  as  singular.  It  lies  on  the  very 
edge  of  the  desert,  which  recoils  above  the  plain 
as  at  Saccara.  The  sand  has  covered  it,  and  only 
head,  neck,  and  back  are  above  its  level.  In  vain 
Caviglia  strove  to  stay  the  desert.  More  than  half 
of  the  sand  that  he  daily  excavated,  blew  back 
again  at  night. 

The  Sphinx,  with  raised  head,  gazes  expectantly 
toward  the  East,  nor  dropped  its  eyes  when  Cam- 
byses  or  Napoleon  came.  The  nose  is  gone,  and 
the  lips  are  gradually  going.  The  constant  attri- 
tion of  sand-grains  wears  them  away.  The  back  is 
a  mass  of  rock,  and  the  temple  between  the  fore- 
paws  is  buried  forever.  Still  unread  is  my  riddle, 


360  NIhE    NOTES. 

it  seems  to  say,  and  looks,  untiring,  for  him  who 
shall  solve  it..  Its  beauty  is  more  Nubian  •  than 
Egyptian,  or  is  rather  a  blending  of  both.  Its 
bland  gaze  is  serious  and  sweet.  Yet  unwinking, 
unbending,  in  the  yellow  moonlight  silence  of  those 
desert  sands,  will  it  breathe  mysteries  more  magical, 
and  rarer  romances  of  the  mountains  of  the  moon 
and  the  Nile  sources,  than  ever  Arabian  imagination 
dreamed.  Be  glad  that  the  Sphinx  was  your  last 
wonder  upon  the  Nile ;  for  it  seemed  to  contain  and 
express  the  rest.  And  from  its  thinned  and  thin- 
ning lips,  as  you  move  back  to  the  river  with  all 
Egypt  behind  you,  trails  a  voice  inaudible,  like  a 
serpent  gorgeously  folding  about  your  memory — 
Egypt  and  mystery,  O  Sphinx ! 


XLVII. 

SUNSET, 

"  Tired  with  the  pomp  of  their  Osireau  foast." 

"  WITH  all  Egypt  behind  you," — so  donkeyed 
the  Howadji  from  the  Sphinx  and  the  silence  of 
the  desert.  They  reached  the  shore  and  stepped 
upon  the  boat  while  the  sun  was  wreaking  all  his 
glory  upon  the  west.  It  burned  through  the  trees 
and  over  the  little  town  of  Ghizeh,  and  its  people 
and  filth,  and  as  we  moved  into  the  stream,  the 
pyramids  occupied  the  west,  unhurt  for  that  seeing, 
large  and  eternal  as  ever,  with  the  old  mystery — 
the  old  charm. 

The  river  was  full  of  boats,  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
city.  The  wind  blew  gently  from  the  north,  and 
fleets  of  sails  were  stretching  whitely  southward. 
Even  some  Howadji  were  just  dotting  down  their 
first  Nile  notes,  and  we,  mariners  of  two  months, 
felt  old  and  mature  as  we  watched  them.  Had  we 

not  worshipped  at  Aboo  Simbel  and  conquered  the 
J6 


362 


NILE    NOTES. 


cataract,  and  heard  Memnon,  and  stood  on  Mem- 
phis ? 

Back  in  that  sunset  came  thronging  the  fairest 
images  of  the  Nile  ;  and  may  sweet  Athor,  lovely 
lady  of  the  West,  enable  you,  retiring  reader,  to 
stand  looking  backward  over  these  pages,  and  be- 
hold  a  palm-tree,  or  a  rosy  pyramid,  or  Memnon, 
or  a  gleam  of  sunshine  brighter  than  our  American 
wont,  or  the  graceful  Ghawazee  beauty  that  the 
voyager  so  pleasantly  remembers. 

— And  you,  Italian  Nera,  who  ask  if  the  sherbet 
of  roses  was  indeed  poured  in  a  four.'/ained  kiosk  of 
Damascus,  you  know  that  Hafiz  long  since  sang  to 
us,  how  sad  were  the  sunset,  were  we  not  sure  of  a 
morrow. 


14 


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